


You Got Me

by Frumpologist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU Sirius Lives Sort Of, Bedsharing, EWE, F/M, Fake Dating, Fluff, Forced Proximity, Humor, Infidelity, Inspired by Leap Year, Pining, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Sexual Content, alcohol use, time travel sort of, wee bit o angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:25:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 38,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23450140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frumpologist/pseuds/Frumpologist
Summary: Hermione Granger has it all after the Great Wizard War—except, perhaps, the promise of a committed future with her Quidditch star boyfriend. She decides to take matters into her own hands and travel to Ireland during the Quidditch World Cup to propose marriage to him. A glitch in her Portkey sends Hermione careening off her perfectly planned path, and right into the arms of a man she thought was dead.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Cormac McLaggen, Sirius Black/Hermione Granger
Comments: 295
Kudos: 466
Collections: Kelly's Picks





	1. The Portkey

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration for this story was taken from the film Leap Year, though it doesn’t follow the plot line exactly. I have taken some creative liberties where the relationship development is concerned (because: magic). Note that as in the movie, there will be a wee bit of infidelity, so if this is not your thing I will not fault you for giving this story a pass :)
> 
> My unending gratitude for the alphas and beta who encouraged this story and made it so much better with their suggestions and edits. mcal, LadyKenz347, and In_Dreams are wonderful, amazing, talented friends, and I’m so happy to have their eyes on this piece.
> 
> The beautiful story graphic was made by the extremely talented QuinTalon.
> 
> As always, I am not profiting from this work in any way.

  
_I think I felt my heart skip a beat,  
I’m standing here and I can hardly breathe,  
You got me, yeah,  
You got me.  
**You Got Me, Colbie Caillat**_

  
  


Hermione Granger stared at her bedroom ceiling, breathless and satisfied. A strapping, charismatic Quidditch star lay next to her, not even bothering to hide his naked bits under her twisted, white sheets. Sporting a massive grin on his face, he choked back deep breaths as he ran a hand through his soft, voluminous dirty blond hair. Sex with Cormac McLaggen was always  _ good. _ Steamy, routine, vanilla sex was exactly what she loved. It wasn’t like they were trying too hard; none of that over-the-top foreplay, or competing for who could climax first, or the most, and whether or not it was at the same time. Every time they settled next to one another after a hot go, it took them several moments to come back down— _ that _ was the mark of satisfactory intercourse, despite what the magazines might say. 

Hermione turned onto her side and yanked the sheets around her body, holding them in place at her chest as she smiled. “Sure you have to leave so early?”

Pushing a chunk of curls behind her ear, Cormac booped her nose. The morning sun cast a glow about his head. “Coach’s orders. We’re training all week leading up to the cup and—”

Leaning forward, Hermione placed a kiss on his lips for no other reason than to stop him talking about Quidditch. They had a good rule in place: she didn’t talk about creature rights and he didn’t talk sports. It kept their relationship free from tension and there was no unnecessary pretending to enjoy things she didn’t give a toss about.

Despite that he tried to deepen the kiss, she pulled away from his lips. “Have a safe trip then. I’ll see you in a week or so?”

Cormac’s blue eyes sparkled as he made a noise of assent in the back of his throat. “Officially roommates when I get back—can’t wait to have you full time.”

“The flat’s officially sold, all I have to do is move.” Excitement coursed through her; they’d planned her moving in meticulously around the Quidditch World Cup. The fates aligned and her flat above Flourish & Blotts had sold in record time. “Are you sure you have to go?”

“No one wishes I could stay in bed with you all day more than I do.”

He pushed himself off the bed and Hermione watched him swipe his clothes from various places around the room. Quidditch had been good to him; all that sunlight and the long days of physical training had formed ridges and valleys along his body in all the right places. Abs she could wash her laundry on, sharp collarbones jutting from the broad planes of his pecs, and a defined vee at his hips that led down to the endowment that had kept Hermione sated for three years. He was a dashing bloke, and she was lucky enough to have a chance to get to know him after—well, after everything.

As she watched him meander around, hopping into his shorts and yanking his plain cotton tee over his head, Hermione couldn’t help but think how bloody grateful she was to have him in her life.

“I love you,” she said with a smile, sitting up against the headboard as Cormac wandered over to her. He ran a hand through her hair and plopped a sweet kiss on her lips.

He didn’t say it back; he never did. It didn’t bother her; they all had their scars from the war, and Cormac’s were deep. They’d all lost someone, he’d told her once when he’d consoled her after a vicious panic attack. It was okay to be affected. So, she’d always afforded him the same sentiment.

“I’ll help you move your stuff into mine when I get back,” he said, making his way to the door. “See you in a week.”

She heard his Disapparation and sighed with a happy smile etched onto her lips.

Everything was perfect.

* * *

The bustle of Diagon Alley had become routine. As Hermione stepped out of her flat’s pale blue door next to the entrance of Flourish & Blotts, she paused out of necessity. The little main street was rarely quiet and she’d come to find that if she didn’t take a moment to check both ways before stepping off her stoop, she’d get bowled over by harried consumers. When the coast was clear, she continued about her day.

There was something enchanting about living in the midst of so much magic. The things she learned were nearly invaluable—normal magic, not just the big things like transfiguration or defense, but little spells to fix popped buttons or cushioning charms on her heels. Hogwarts should have taught the things she learned from living in Diagon for three years; pedestrian magic.

“Morning, Hermione!”

“Good morning, Mr. Eeylops.” Hermione waved at the white-haired man as she passed by his shop front. “I hope Mrs. Eeylops is feeling better today.”

“Just fine, dear, just fine.” The man swept his broom across his stoop. “She’d like to thank you for the soup you dropped off yesterday afternoon. How about owl treats for your sweet Phoebe?”

“That’d be lovely, sir, thank you!”

“Ah, petal, enough with the ‘sir’.” Mr. Eeylops chuckled and shooed her away. “We’ll package them up for you to grab tonight. Off you go, don’t want to be late, do you?”

Hermione laughed, offering him a genuine smile and continuing on down the cobbled lane. The same interactions happened at nearly every shop, save for Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, where she knew that George was holed up working on some bizarre concoction to try and force her into testing—which she never did, much to his dismay.

When she reached the alley entrance to The Leaky Cauldron, Hermione braced herself. Harry and Ron weren’t going to be the most supportive; they never were. Oh, they were brilliant, of course. And bless them for at least  _ trying _ to take her feelings into consideration far more than they ever had at school. But, sadly, they were still the blokes who would treat her like a sister and say the absolute wrong thing at the wrong time. Telling them her plan wasn’t exactly something she was excited about, but they’d also be irate if she surprised them with the news and hadn’t given them the chance to have The Talk.

The boys sat shoulder to shoulder at a small table in a corner. Harry’s hair, normally sticky-up and chaotic, was flat and hanging over the edge of his glasses while he sipped on, what Hermione guessed by the pale pallor of his face, was a strong, black coffee. Ron, on the other hand, met her gaze with his red-rimmed stare and pushed his messy hair from his forehead before waving her over.

Brilliant sunlight streamed onto the table, pinging off the tea cups and spoons. She tugged off her coat and swung it over the back of the chair across from them before depositing herself into it.

“Morning,” she said, taking the steaming tea that they’d ordered and sipping it. Perfect; they truly did know her better than anyone else. “You two look peaky. Tough weekend?”

Harry shoved his round glasses up the bridge of his nose and then stuck his thumb out towards Ron. “Someone decided that a pre-party before a Weird Sisters concert was a great idea.” He winced around his hot coffee. “It wasn’t, by the way.”

“You’re just saying that because  _ I _ went home with the hottest witch of the night.” Ron rolled his eyes and stretched back against his chair. “Jealous, he is. Thinks the best looking birds should just fall at his feet because he’s Harry Bloody Potter.”

“That’s not at all what I think, Ron.” Harry’s cup clanked against the table and knocked a spoon sideways. Hermione caught it as it went careening off the table. “I find it a bit suspect, actually. The hottest witch of the night was nowhere to be found when you left me alone in that mosh pit.”

“Ron!” Hermione chastised him, though a smile tugged at her lips. “You didn’t leave Harry all alone to fend for himself in a mosh pit, did you?”

“He’s The Chosen One and all that. He can handle it.”

Harry huffed and Hermione laughed. “So, should I learn this girl’s name, or not bother?”

Ron shook his head. “Nah. Didn’t click on an intellectual level.”

“You’re joking, mate.” Harry snorted. “On an intellectual level? With you?”

“Oi!”

“Right, so, you both have hangovers. It’s a typical Monday then. What else?” Hermione sipped more tea and watched them exchange a glance. Something rolled in her belly; she didn’t like the hesitant look they shared. “What is it?”

Harry shoved a magazine towards her, face wincing. “We know you hate these articles, but…”

**_Witch Weekly Exclusive: Cormac McLaggen Named Sexiest Quidditch Player of the Year_ **

“Oh, bollocks.” Hemione’s fingers danced along the cover where the vee of his hips were covered by a quaffle. “He told me it was just some silly little photoshoot.” A laugh burst through her lips. “Oh Merlin, he made his pecs bounce.”

Cormac’s photo turned its cheek to the side and flashed a quick wink. He really was a handsome wizard, with the luxury of knowing it and using it for his benefit. Or, as Cormac had called it, ‘his brand’. She grinned down at his photo as it cycled through pec bouncing and winking, and then looked up to her two best friends.

She shoved the paper to the side. “He’s going to be insufferable when he sees this.”

“You don’t care?” Ron asked hesitantly, blue eyes watching for any lie she might tell. She shook her head. “He’s starkers!”

“Yes, Ronald, I see that quite clearly.”

“Er, ‘Mione… you don’t think he’s—you know…” Harry scratched the back of his neck and dropped his gaze to a small knot in the table.

Hermione narrowed her eyes, shoulders tensing. “I don’t think he’s  _ what _ , Harry Potter?”

He mumbled his response, and she leaned forward over the table, slapping her palm down. “I  _ said _ ,” he forced out through thin lips, still not looking her in the eyes, “you don’t think Cormac is cheating on you, do you?”

Uncontrollable belly laughter burst from her lips. The boys stared at her as if she’d suddenly grown a thestral from her nose, but it didn’t deter her in the slightest. She swiped at her eyes where they’d started to water and took several deep breaths before she was finally able to gasp out her words. “Why on earth would you think that?”

They looked at one another again, Ron tipping his chin in her direction and swinging his gaze to hers. Harry sighed and hung his head.

“He’s just… Cormac, isn’t he? He’s a good looking bloke, and he’s dead famous, and—”

“Let me get this straight.” Hermione sobered and held up her hand. “You think that because Cormac is good looking and famous, I couldn’t possibly be enough for him? Is that really what you’re saying to me right now?”

It was ridiculous. Of course he was those things, but it hadn’t ever interfered with his feelings for her. And no, he’d never explicitly stated that he loved her, but she  _ felt _ it. There were no signs of infidelity, not even the whiff of some other girl’s perfume. Cormac wasn’t cheating on her. He wasn’t.

“Hermione.” Ron’s voice was a whisper. “It’s just… you’ve never been  _ that _ girl, you know?”

“Leave the table right now Ronald Weasley before I withdraw my wand and show you precisely what type of girl I really am.” Deadly calm, she watched as he followed her instructions without any hesitation. “Harry. Would you care to expound on your observation or withdraw your claim?”

“Withdraw,” he answered quickly, earnest green eyes flashing with gratitude. “Sorry, sorry. You know I don’t mean anything against you. It’s just… bloke still rubs me the wrong way after all this time.”

“Yes, well.” Hermione lifted her chin and resumed sipping her tea. “That’s hardly any reason to disparage my person. He can rub you wrong and still not choose to cheat on me because I’m not whatever you seem to think I should be for him.”

Pink pooled on Harry’s cheeks, and Hermione was sufficiently pleased with herself. She settled back into her seat again and offered Harry a kind, forgiving sort of smile.

“I’m going to propose to him this weekend.”

Harry choked on his coffee. Thumping his fist into his chest, he violently cleared his throat and stole a greedy breath. “You’re what?”

“I’m going to take advantage of Leap Day and propose to Cormac after this whole Quidditch Cup thing is over.” Hermione waved her hand vaguely and finished off her lukewarm tea. “It’s a thing that happens in Ireland once every four years. Women propose to their significant others. It’s meant to be quite fun— _ romantic.” _

“That’s…” He seemed to search for a word, his jaw gaping, before brightening up and settling on an underwhelming one. “That’s really something. If you’re sure, of course, we’ll support you.”

“Good,” Hermione said, nodding her chin once. She straightened her shoulders, all business. “Because I need a favor, if you don’t mind.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair and pursed his lips. She could see the hesitation flicker behind his eyes as he glanced where Ron stood off to the side. “Er…You’re not going to ask me to break the law again, are you? Because I know I said I’d do anything for you, and I meant it, but I’m an Auror and—”

“It’s not ‘breaking the law’ to request access to the official house elf registry.” Hermione waved him off and sipped her tea. “It’s not  _ my  _ fault the registry officially belongs to the Wizengamot and is sealed in a vault in the Department of Mysteries. In order to be effective at my job, Harry, I need to be privy to all facets of creature mortality and—”

“Alright, alright.” He groaned, wiping his hands over his face and tossing a glare in her direction when she didn’t bother to stifle her victory smile. “What’d you want then?”

“I’m going to need a Portkey to Dublin. I’ve never been and can’t picture it to Apparate, and I don’t know any of the Floo networks out that way.” Hermione’s hand rested on the paper where Cormac still winked and bounced his pecs. She flicked the tip of her finger over his nipple as she stared Harry down. “And since I know you were able to procure one to take Theo to Romania last month…”

“Are you trying to blackmail me?” Harry’s eyebrow shot high above his glasses. “Because the thing with Theo is new, and  _ secret _ , and—”

“Blackmail is against the law,” Hermione said, gnawing on the corner of her lip and eying him innocently. “I prefer to think of it as pointing out what you’ve done wrong and then asking you to consider doing something questionable for me, with the express understanding that I won’t say anything about what you’ve done wrong ever again.”

Harry’s face fell. “Which,  _ again _ , is blackmail.”

“Semantics.” Hermione shrugged. “So, Portkey?”

* * *

Hermione held an old Dumbledore’s Army galleon in her palm and went through her checklist as she waited for it to whisk her off to Ireland. She had less than a week until the Quidditch World Cup and her plan required precision. No deviations, no asides—get there, get engaged, get home before the Ministry decided to reverse all the work she’d done for centaurs and house elves over the last five years.

She’d make it to Dublin swiftly (thanks to Harry), buy a wedding dress, bribe the commentator to announce her proposal, secretly arrange a romantic display to occur once the snitch was caught, and—bugger it, she’d forgotten about the bonding rings. She curled her fingers around the galleon as it burned bright blue, and rolled her eyes at her own hasty forgetfulness. Of course now that she knew she’d forgotten one thing, Hermione would have to revise her intensive task list once she arrived in Dublin. Triple and quadruple check that nothing else was left forgotten.

Just as a strong hook-like feeling jolted her navel, Hermione remembered the bloody flowers she’d have to arrange, too.

_ Bollocks _ .

It was her last thought before she disappeared from her living room.

If Hermione never had to travel by Portkey again for the rest of her life, she’d be the happiest witch in all of Europe. The sharp jerk behind her navel was bad enough, but when coupled with careening through space under intense pressure and spinning wildly like a top, she nearly vomited her dinner at her feet as she appeared suddenly on squishy ground in the pouring rain.

Hermione slipped the little galleon into her pocket and pulled her wand free from its holster. She glanced left and right and took in her surroundings as she flicked a nonverbal charm over her head to stop the pelting, cold rain. Her wand tip sparked, a crackle vibrated the porous wood, and then—nothing. She flicked it again; nothing. Perhaps she was overcome from the stressful Portkey travel; nonverbal magic did take a certain level of concentration after all.

“ _ Desisto Imber _ ,” she whispered, breathless from the sudden onslaught of cold air into her lungs. Still, her magic didn’t work. “No, no, no, no…”

In long strides, Hermione stepped through the gritty sand of the beach she had landed on with her overfilled luggage following behind. There was no shelter to be found close by; golden sand for kilometers left and right, and lush green grass in front of her, with what appeared to be the Atlantic ocean behind her. This most definitely wasn’t Dublin—couldn’t be. Who’d want to live  _ here _ , on a wet, cold, desolate beach?

Her body shook as the cold seeped into her bones. Not the right day to wear a light jumper, a skirt, and those damn fuck-me heels that Cormac liked so much. As if her traitorous shoes could hear her thoughts, the heel became trapped in a particularly soft bit of sand, and Hermione fell forward onto her knees.

An oath tumbled from her lips, vehement and foggy in front of her face. “What the hell did Harry do?”

She pushed herself up and ripped her foot out of the stupid heel that refused to be pulled from the sand, and nearly fell over as she removed the other and tossed it aside. Fine. No shoes; she could deal with no shoes. Rain? Okay—a little dampness never hurt anyone. She was British, after all. The cold? Hermione pulled her jumper tighter around her frame as if that would make a difference; of course it didn’t.

But her  _ magic _ . Her magic wasn’t working and  _ that _ was terrifying.

Hermione tried again to use her wand, but it was fruitless. She silently threatened to curse Harry as she trudged up an inclined pathway from the beach to a field of green. What she’d hoped to see at the top of the hill was a bustling town with shelter and people, but neither appeared. Instead, there was a dirt road that wound around a curve where she thought, if she squinted, she could see dark smoke from a chimney in the far off distance.

She wasn’t just going to curse Harry—she was going to murder him.

Hermione plowed forward through the rain and along the mucky road barefoot and with the sort of simmering rage that served to propel her forward, if only so that she could find a functional Floo, travel right into Grimmauld Place, and throttle her best friend. She didn’t realize how wildly unfit she was until she finally—mercifully—arrived at the door of an unassuming inn after an indeterminable amount of time.

Huffing and shaking, she pushed the door open and nearly laughed out loud, so happy to see people and have shelter from the rain. Hermione stepped fully inside, the door crashing behind her, and dragged her bulky luggage to sit next to her dirt-covered legs.

The pub was smaller on the inside than it appeared from the outside. Patrons dotted the few tables between the door and the bar, and it seemed as though the pub attracted a type: ginger, balding, rounding, and jolly. There was a man behind the bar with his head of shaggy hair falling over his face as he scrubbed the dark wood with a grubby cloth. Behind him was a door that led to what looked like a kitchen, and off to his left was a narrow set of stairs.

It was a dimly lit place with a homely feel and the faint smell of grease and beer. Warm, though—the laughter sounded quite nice and welcoming after her mishap on the beach.

“Hello.” She swatted at her hair, the ringlets sodden with water, and forced a friendly smile. “You, er, couldn’t tell me where I am, could you?”

Out of the clientele, only one, portly older gentleman with reddening cheeks and a head of greying, ginger hair answered. “Ne’er been ta Dingle before, have ya, missy? Could smell the English on ya from outside, I could.”

She shook her head; a huffy laugh escaped her throat. “And...how far are we from Dublin?”

A scoff from behind the bar drew her eyes away from the patrons dotted around the pub—inn, or wherever she was. When she met the eyes of the man standing there, arms crossed over his chest, wearing what looked like a ratty, old Sex Pistols tee shirt, Hermione gasped. 

His name stuck in her throat, and she blinked several times as if clearing her vision would somehow change the impossible face in front of her. He wasn’t the same man that she had known in her years at Hogwarts—he was  _ younger _ , even. His eyes not quite as haunted, his shoulders not as tense, his skin, while still tattooed, not marred by burns and scars the way they’d been during the Great War.

“Sirius?” she finally managed, just a squeak of a sound that echoed around her.

He—Sirius Black, the same man who she saved from Dementors and fought alongside in the Department of Mysteries—lifted a brow over those dark, skeptical eyes, and his lips twitched.

“Alright, love.” An easy grin slid onto his face. “Who’re you?”


	2. She is Called Betty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Pureblood_Muggle for her invaluable assistance with very old Irish payphones!

[](https://imgbb.com/)

Hermione stared at him disbelievingly, jaw dangling open as she took in the sight of the man in front of her. The man who, by all accounts, should have been dead for the last seven years, ever since his body fell backwards through the veiled arch in the bowels of the Ministry.

It was surreal, seeing the youthful side of a man she’d witnessed facing the horrors of war. When she’d known Sirius, he was disheveled and scarred, haunted and angry. But now, his eyes sparkled with mischief and his lips seemed to flirt with a constant smirk. He had tattoos scattered along his arms all the way up to where the sleeve of his tee shirt covered his biceps, but not quite as many red, angry scars as before. Hermione wondered if he still had his prison ID etched into his chest, though she couldn’t imagine he would—this Sirius wasn’t shadowed by anguish like the Sirius she had known in her third year.

He wasn’t sickly thin any longer, but lean, and as far as she could see as her eyes flitted over his exposed skin, he had muscle where he was once only skin and bone. His face was stubbly, but not as messy as it had been all those years ago—trimmed and manicured to accentuate his sharp jaw, with no sign of gray patches. If she had to guess, Hermione would say this Sirius was in his late twenties, which meant that he must have traveled through time; dead wizards didn’t just show up twenty years younger.

It meant Sirius Black was alive and well and possibly with no recollection of who she was or who she was friends with. But why would he leave James, Lily, and Harry? Why hadn’t he found Remus and Tonks? Why hadn’t he been at the final battle with them, fighting against the most evil wizard in history?

Unless his memories were gone; unless he didn’t remember anything about who he was in their world; unless he wasn’t Sirius Black any longer, but a mere echo of a man that once existed.

A loud buzzing sound filled her ears as blood thundered through her veins and her heart slammed against her sternum. She tried to steal a deep breath through her nose, but it didn’t reach her lungs.

“I’m going to faint,” she whispered, not sure the words actually left her.

Black spots appeared in her vision, body wobbly and mere seconds from dropping to the floor. She fleetingly hoped someone had a wand and could cushion her fall as her eyes began to droop shut. Just as she began to crumple to the ground, warm hands wrapped around her arms and his handsome, worried face appeared in her vision.

“You’re going to catch a chill from being out in that rain,” he said casually, flicking a sodden lock of hair over her shoulder. “Why don’t you stay with us for the night, and we’ll get you fed and on your way to Dublin in the morning.”

“Sirius.” His name was like a prayer from her lips, soft and curious and breathy.

“Don’t think you should say my name like that.” A rogue smile slipped across his face quickly followed by a fleeting wink. “Haven’t done anything to earn it, have I?” His hands tightened around her shoulders for a moment and then he pulled away. “Alright. We’ll get you up to a room and—”

“No, I—I need to call—” she swallowed around Harry’s name and flicked her gaze between Sirius’ questioning eyes. “Do you have a connected Floo?”

He pressed a single finger to his lips and shushed her. Hermione glanced around at the few patrons around the pub; were they all Muggles? Oh, Merlin, this was not good. Hermione nodded her understanding and it earned her another one of his easy smiles.

“A wand?” she whispered, eyes widening as if that were going to convey the precarious state she currently found herself in. “An owl?”

“I haven’t been part of that world in seven years, love.” His grey eyes darkened for a moment. “And I have no intention of ever returning. Do you want a room or not?”

He didn’t know her. Didn’t have any idea of the things they’d faced together, or the bonds they shared. It confirmed what she’d guessed earlier: he didn’t remember Harry, either. Sirius would have never left Harry alone if he knew he’d been left without any family at all. No, something strange and possibly sinister was at play here—it had to be—and maybe it would serve her well to stay a night and try to find out what she could about this…not-Sirius.

“Alright,” she said finally, pushing her bulky luggage towards him at the same time as she compartmentalized her worry and steeled her face. “I’m going to need a phone, as it appears I’ve been displaced from my original itinerary.”

“Payphone’s in the corner. Watch out for Barney; he’s handsy when he’s pissed.” Sirius pointed to a man who swayed in his seat, whose watery eyes leered in her direction.

Hermione hitched her rain soaked jumper tighter around her body. “Thanks.” She gestured to her luggage, but Sirius had already begun walking away. “Are you not going to take my things to my room?”

“What, that thing?” Sirius laughed, a rough bark from deep in his throat as he half-turned to eye her things. “You’ve overfilled it, likely with an entire wardrobe, and you expect me to carry it up the stairs for you?” He laughed again and carried on walking to the bar. “I’ll wait here while you straighten out your itinerary.”

Annoyance bubbled under her skin as she held a staring contest with him. She was waiting for him to say he was joking, or for Harry and Ron to jump out from the kitchen behind the bar and have a laugh at her expense. When neither happened, Hermione narrowed her eyes and stomped over to the payphone.

She’d never actually used a payphone before. She had seen them, of course. On the street where her parents’ dental practice was, there was a phone booth and she’d begged her dad to take her into it because it looked like the one out of Doctor Who—but he didn’t let her call anyone. And then she had been whisked off to a magical school, and because her friends were magical, she used things like owls and Floos and galleons, not payphones. So, as Hermione stared at the rotary payphone—which was  _ ancient  _ even by modern standards—she paused and chewed on her lip.

Thankfully, she’d come prepared with the local muggle currency, but how to use it in  _ this _ situation, buggered if she knew. Hermione cast a hesitant glance over her shoulder and then back to the unfamiliar machine. She shoved her hand into her handbag, pulled out the little change purse, and withdrew several coins. Powers of deduction would work here, she reasoned; if the coin fit, logically the phone would work.

“Having a problem, are you?” Sirius called over to her and she could hear the smarmy pleasure in his tone, could practically feel the way he was smirking.

“No,” she answered and hastily picked up the receiver and began to shove whatever coin would fit into its receptacle. There was no dial tone, no sound at all. She pressed down on the receiver lever and released it, and when nothing happened still, she tried again and again and again with no success. “Your phone’s broken.”

She turned just in time to see a grin crawl up to meet his eyes. He shrugged and then crossed his arms. “You never asked if it worked, just demanded a phone, didn’t you? Bossy little thing, you are.”

Hermione stormed over to him, practically tripping over her own wet, bare feet to get to him. If she could jump over the bar without serious injury to herself, she would have tried. Instead, she leaned into it so hard she felt its pressure against her ribcage. “I—need—a—working—telephone!”

“Well, why didn’t you say that in the first place?” He bounced on his heels and jutted his chin to the right where a modern phone hung on the wall.

Baring her teeth, Hermione seethed and held out her hand. Each word that left her was forced through ground molars. “May I use it, please?”

“Ahhhh, no.” Sirius shook his head, the dark hair around his shoulders gently swaying. “You’re absolutely filthy, and I don’t want you to get your muck all over my clean bits.”

A raw, unfettered screech burst from Hermione’s lips as she pushed herself from the bruising bar. Merlin, Circe, and Rowena, if her magic worked, she’d likely hit Sirius Black with a Bat-Bogey Hex so powerful he’d never get his handsome, smug face back. She practiced deep breathing—something she’d learned from the mind healer after the war—and closed her eyes while counting to ten slowly in her head. When she finally opened her eyes, it was to see Sirius leaning casually against the bar with that prattish smile on his face.

“Would you like to see your room and, perhaps, the shower?” he asked cheerfully, not waiting for Hermione to answer before he took off towards the stairs and out of sight.

“You’ll have the pick of the rooms tonight, lass!” one of the patrons called to Hermione as she grabbed the handle of her luggage—a fact that had her seething at Sirius’ hospitality.

“Aye, I reckon the rooms’ve been empty for an age, they ‘ave.”

“Nah, the lad from Kilkenney shacked up in the rooms a fortnight ago.”

“That was in the summer, Pat—months ago now.”

“Was it really? Had problems with his woman, way I remember it—”

Hermione didn’t stay to hear the rest of the conversation, and stomped up the stairs after Sirius. When she reached the top, she found him standing at the end of a long, well lit hallway, leaning against the wall and waiting for her.

“That bag looks heavy,” he said as she approached, an eyebrow raised mockingly. “You’re one of those people who pack for every potential emergency, aren’t you?”

“It never hurts to be prepared.” Hermione stopped in front of him and the two became locked in some staring contest—she wasn’t sure why, but she was determined to win and refused to remove her gaze from his.

Several uncomfortable minutes passed before Sirius’ gaze swept her face, and then he reached out and pulled the door open. “Bath’s down the hall, second door on the right,” he said, ushering her into the room. The small space was barely wide enough to fit a bed and a wardrobe, and it was dark, a single oil lamp lighting the space. “Pipes are a bit old. If you break ‘em, I’ll charge it to your room.”

He didn’t wait for her to respond, instead swiftly closing the door, leaving Hermione alone to wonder why her stomach suddenly felt as if it were filled with butterflies.

* * *

It took her two rounds of bathing to remove the caked dirt from her body, but Hermione had to admit that when she stepped out of the warm tub, she felt loads better. She wasn’t soggy and cold, but warm and clean, and after putting a brush through her wet, conditioned hair, she felt like a brand new person ready to take on Ireland and propose to her wizard. It was a minor setback, the glitch in the Portkey, and she’d worked through worse unexpected problems in the past. She’d take the first train to Dublin in the morning, and all would be well.

Then, once she was home, she’d figure out this Sirius problem.

Hermione snapped her bra, tugged her knickers on, and was just about to pull Cormac’s old Quidditch jersey over her head when the door to the bathroom banged open. Hermione shrieked and panicked as she tried to drag the shirt over her head and block her underwear from Sirius’ view.

“Excuse me!” Hermione cursed under her breath and scrambled to hide her body. “Do you just barge in on all your customers? This is entirely inappropriate and unprofessional and I could have the business—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Sirius held up his hands, the planes of his throat constricting, and he turned around to stare out the open door. “I didn’t know you were still in here—who takes an hour-long bath? I came to clean up and grab the towels, love. Nothing more.”

Given that he turned around and wasn’t sneaking a peek, Hermione softened but only just. Honestly, who didn’t knock on the bloody door to the bath when it was closed? She grabbed her sleep shorts from her pile of clothes and yanked them on. “You can turn around now.”

“Right.” He turned around, and she watched his eyes drop to her feet and climb every inch of her body until they reached her eyes. Heat flooded her cheeks. “D’you still need to use the phone, or has your magic returned to you?”

Hermione shook her head, chin wobbling at the admission. “Still no magic. I’ll be catching the train first thing tomorrow, so no need to use the phone, I suppose. When’s the first train out?”

“We don’t have a train here.” That frustrating grin was back on his face and it took all of her willpower not to march over to him and hex it off. Before she could open her mouth to retaliate, Sirius added, “We’ll get you a ride in the morning, lass, don’t worry.”

She mumbled her thanks as he walked out the door, and then sat down on the edge of the tub to try and calm her sudden nervous energy. If she left the inn here in Dingle, knowing Sirius was alive and well, she’d need to contact Harry as soon as she reached Dublin and got her magic back in working order.

The thing was, he seemed happy here. Unencumbered in a way that she’d never seen him before. Hermione wasn’t sure what the right thing to do was, and she was glad she’d have the night to think it over and perhaps do some digging around the inn to try and find out more about  _ this _ very different Sirius Black.

* * *

Hermione had forgotten what her hair was like without magic to keep it tamed. Her wild curls expanded ten-fold as she sat in the overheated bedroom and kept falling into her eyes as she searched for any information she could find. She didn’t expect that Sirius would keep things hidden in guest rooms, but then the guest rooms she normally stayed in usually didn’t have a wardrobe filled with personal effects, either.

His clothes—so different to the Sex Pistols shirt and ripped jeans he’d been wearing that night—were hung primly from a rack, each suit matched with a tie and waistcoat, that looked as if it’d been something he’d worn when he was still a Black family legacy. He had a few galleons, a handful of sickles, and several knuts, and what looked to be Dreamless Sleep potions collected in a small rune-carved box. It seemed as if Sirius was living a Muggle life, but still clung to pieces of his wizarding life. She wondered how much he knew, how much he remembered, or  _ when _ this Sirius had come from.

There was no time-turner to be found, but then Sirius never struck her as someone who would leave something so powerful just lying about for anyone to find. And so, Hermione kept digging through the wardrobe in an attempt to find  _ something _ that might help make sense of things. It wasn’t until she rifled through a stack of paperwork pertaining to the purchase of his pub and inn that Hermione paused in her search. An old, worn photograph was smashed face-down between papers. When she turned it over, tears gathered in her eyes.

Sirius was surrounded by his three friends; the Marauders’ faces were in various stages of laughter with Sirius’ arms slung around Remus and James’ shoulders, and Peter sidled up close to Remus’ side. James lifted a hand to muss up his hair while Remus rolled his eyes playfully before stretching to swat the back of his head. Sirius was gazing straight ahead, though, with a mischievous curve to his lips as he raised two fingers on each hand behind his friends’ heads. And then the photo looped again, showing them laughing again.

They were so carefree, so unaware of what the next few years would hold for them. James’ shiny Head Boy badge glinted in the sunlight and Remus’ face was free of the gouge marks she’d tried not to pay attention to in her third year. Peter gazed at the others with a sort of reverence she knew would one day ruin everything. But Sirius… he was happy, surrounded by true family. He must remember them, if he’d kept this photo. And if that was the case, why hadn’t he been to England to visit Harry?

Hermione swiped at the corners of her eyes and stuffed the photo into a compartment in her luggage. She’d take the photo to Harry as proof she’d come across Sirius. She’d throttle him and then present him with the best gift she could ever give him: his godfather back from the dead.

A soft knock on her door dragged Hermione from her thoughts.

“Are you decent?”

“Come on in.” She pushed herself further onto the bed and crossed her legs as he pushed the door open and leaned against the frame.

He held a small white plate in his hand, and on top of it rested a messy sandwich. “Thought you might be hungry,” he said, handing the plate over to her. “And so you can sleep tonight, I’ll give you a ride to Dublin tomorrow.”

Hermione picked at the sandwich but didn’t eat a bite of it. “Thanks, I appreciate that. I can pay you, of course.”

“No need.” Sirius crossed his arms and tilted his head. “I’ve got a thing for saving a damsel in distress.”

“I’m hardly a damsel,” she chuckled darkly, setting the plate down on the nearest flat surface. “And I don’t need saving. My plan simply changed; it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Right.” That blasted grin crawled onto his face once more and Hermione flicked her gaze over his shoulder so that she wouldn’t have to look in his eyes any longer. “Because showing up soaking wet, caked in mud, and without magic is something you do every Tuesday, is it?”

“Maybe it is.” Hermione lifted her chin, argumentative because she wasn’t going to admit that she was perfectly out of her element, confused about the man standing in her doorway, and entirely on edge because her plan was shot to hell. “You don’t know anything about me, do you?”

Sirius watched her for a long moment, eyes sweeping her bare legs, the Wimbourne Wasps jersey with blocky number 11, and finally her face. His lips lifted. “I don’t. Not even sure what your name is, love. Maybe we’ll start there.”

Something inside of her had hoped he’d remember her when she asked, as if the simple question would lift the fog and reveal everything he seemed to have forgotten. A rock sat in her stomach when he asked her name and she let loose a shaky breath before answering him sadly.

She stuck out her hand, businesslike, forcing a strained smile onto her face. “Hermione.”

He took her hand and she was surprised to find that his hand was warm, not as clammy as he’d been after Azkaban. His skin was soft even as he squeezed her fingers with his. “Sirius Black; pub owner, cab service, innkeeper, playboy.”

Laughter bubbled up before she could stop it, and Hermione shook her head. “Noted. Nice to meet you, Sirius.”

“Pleasure is all mine.” He bent at the waist, catching her gaze and holding it as he pressed his lips to the back of her hand. She stamped down the butterflies that came to life inside her. “Get some sleep, lass. We’ve got a long haul in the morning.”

“Night, Sirius.” Hermione slowly pulled her hand away, the tips of their fingers curling over one another as their skin slid apart. “Thanks again, for the shower, the sandwich, and everything.”

He said nothing more, just fired off a quick wink and pulled the door closed behind him.

Throwing herself back onto the bed, a long, deep breath left her lungs. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and tried desperately not to think of Sirius Black in the most inappropriate ways. “Bugger.”

* * *

She woke early, before the sunrise, and grabbed her wand from the bedside. Before she fell asleep, Hermione had tried a few simple spells with no luck. This morning, she tried again. Not so much as a spark from the tip of her wand, no matter what incantation she tried. She even pulled the old galleon out and tried to send a message to any member of the D.A. who might still look at their coin, but nothing happened.

It was okay, though, she reasoned. In a few hours’ time, she’d be in Dublin and with Cormac, and she’d be able to Floo Mungo’s and get checked out. She lost her magic with the Portkey glitch and had no doubt she just needed rest or a potion to help fuel her magical core again.

Not wanting to miss something and knowing she’d never have the opportunity again, Hermione rummaged through the wardrobe once more, and found nothing that might give her a clue as to what landed Sirius in Ireland, or why he was youthful and without memories. She had an entire journey from Dingle to Dublin to figure it out, and so she decided to put her sleuthing to rest for now.

Sirius knocked on her door sometime after the sun poured into the room and said he’d be ready to leave in an hour. It gave her all the time she needed to gather herself and prepare for a long car ride through the country. She hoped Sirius was bringing snacks—she hadn’t eaten a bite of that sandwich from the night before.

She changed her clothes, deciding on a pair of faded blue jeans, low slender heels, and a flowy blouse that Cormac said always made him randy (his exact words had been, “I’m a breast man, and yours look ace in that top.”). When she dragged her luggage down the narrow stairs and into the pub, it seemed a different place than the night before. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, dust motes floating where the golden rays filtered in and shined off glossy tabletops. It was quieter in the morning, but no less filled with familiar faces from the night before.

“Morning, lass!” Barney, the handsy one, called to her as Hermione made her way towards the door. “Leavin’ us so soon?”

Hermione smiled at him, nodding her head. “Off to Dublin this morning with Sirius. It was nice to meet you, Barney.”

“Aye, aye. Pleasure it is to see you off. Make that boy take care of you.”

She didn’t respond, just flicked a casual wave in his direction and walked through the door and into the morning sun. Sirius was nowhere to be seen, so Hermione strolled towards the road, guessing after last night’s ordeal that he wouldn’t bother to drag her luggage out to his car even if she did wait for him by the door to his pub. She waited another two minutes before she heard an engine roar, and saw Sirius pull around the bend in the road.

Only, he wasn’t in a car. With a smile on his face, a big black helmet covering his long hair, and a leather jacket around his frame, Sirius came to a stop in front of her atop a shiny, black motorcycle. He revved the engine, grinned like the cat who ate the cream, and then turned off the motorbike.

“Morning, love.” He pulled the helmet off his head and held it in Hermione’s direction. When she stared at it, he chuckled. “Can’t get on the bike if you don’t wear it. Safety first and all.”

“What— _ how _ —” Hermione spluttered through her dozens of questions, no full sentences leaving her as she gestured vaguely at the bike and then to Sirius and then her luggage. “What is  _ this _ ?”

“ _ She _ is called Betty, and she’s grand. Fits two people easily, and I think you’ll find there’s a cheeky charm on her storage compartment to fit your ridiculous luggage.” Sirius looked far too proud of himself as he thrust the shiny helmet toward her again. “No helmet, no ride.”

She’d never been on a motorbike before. Thestrals, brooms, cars, hippogriffs—fine. A two-wheeled death trap? Hermione’s stomach rolled as she reached for the helmet and yanked it from Sirius’ grasp.

“Might want to do something with that.” Sirius gestured around his head in exaggerated movements, obviously poking fun at her hair. “Maybe shave it off?”

Glaring at him, Hermione shoved the helmet on her head and crossed her arms. “Happy? I look like a twat.”

He chuckled and stood, stepping close to her and taking the straps of the helmet in his fingers. Hermione stared up at him, her lips pinching as she tried to stop herself from telling him exactly how much of a prat he was. He clipped the helmet on and then slapped his hands on either side of the helmet.

“There.” He straightened how the helmet sat on her head and grinned. “Better to look like a twat than the alternative if we crash.” Sirius situated himself onto the motorcycle and jerked his chin to invite her to slide on behind him.

She couldn’t argue with him, but it didn’t stop Hermione from huffing before flinging her leg over the bike and telling him exactly where he could shove his sarcasm. The engine roared to life, sending vibrations through her body. She found it oddly soothing, not that she’d ever admit it to him. He revved the engine and glanced over his shoulder.

“Better hold on—round my waist is best,” he shouted over the growl of the bike. “Don’t get handsy, either. Above the waist, please.”

Hermione grumbled and locked her hands around his torso. “Don’t go too fast. I’ve never been on one of these—”

The motorbike took off like a shot, and Hermione buried her helmeted head into Sirius’ leather jacket, calling him every single foul name she’d ever heard Harry and Ron use.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my love to the AlphaBet for their continued help and encouragement!  
> Alphas: mcal & LadyKenz347  
> Beta: In_Dreams  
> MUAH!


	3. Flip the Coin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some lines from this chapter were lifted straight out of the film Leap Year. I do not own anything recognizable.

Once Hermione adjusted to the motorbike, she was loath to admit that it wasn’t actually that bad of a way to travel. Sirius didn’t perform any fancy tricks or travel over the speed limit, and the view of the country was beautiful. He had asked her if she wanted to see more of Ireland on their trip, and since they’d gotten such an early start, Hermione had agreed—the rolling green hills of the country were famous and she’d never been before.

They were more than an hour into their journey when Sirius must have grown tired of the silence between them. He slowed the bike to a steady crawl and shouted back to her over the roar of the wind and the engine. “So, why’re you in Ireland?”

Hermione gripped his middle a little tighter as she lifted her head from his back. “Why, don’t you think I fit in here?”

The vibration of his laugh purred against her chest. “You’re very clearly British.”

“Well, so are you!” She took a breath and chewed on her lip, nervous for some reason to admit to Sirius what she was doing so far away from home. “My boyfriend is a Keeper for the Wimbourne Wasps, and on reserve for the English National Team.” A proud smile overtook her lips and settled plainly in her voice as she continued. “He’s playing in the Quidditch World Cup match at the weekend, and I’m going to propose to him on Leap Day.”

Sirius’ chin jerked over his shoulder and the motorbike swerved to the left. Hermione screamed and clutched her hands as hard as she could around him, burying her face between his shoulder blades and whimpering as he slowed the bike. He pulled off to the side of the road and shut the engine down, turning to Hermione with a raised eyebrow.

“ _ You _ are going to propose to your famous boyfriend?” he asked, disbelief and sarcasm etched in the straight lines of his lips and pointed, raised brows. When she nodded, he laughed. “Do you know how desperate that sounds? Listen, love, if a bloke wants to marry you, he’ll get down on one knee to ask you. Proposing to him is like… a trap.”

Hermione unwound her hands from around him and wiggled off of the bike in the most graceless way possible. Her heel cracked under her weight on the road and she nearly fell over while Sirius watched her. He had a stupid, amused grin on his face and his arms crossed over his chest, daring her to argue. So, she did.

“That’s the most misogynistic, archaic thing I’ve ever heard, Sirius Black, and I would have expected better from you!” Hermione ignored the limp in her step as she approached him and poked him in the chest. “He’s not one to confide his feelings easily, and if I can take this one task off his plate, it’s the least that I can do. He understands how important our relationship, and marriage, is to my career—”

“To your  _ career _ ?” Sirius asked slowly, a sudden darkness settling behind his gray eyes. “What, are you one of those monkeys at the Ministry, letting sycophantic old wizards boss you about all day while they line their pockets with more galleons than they need?”

“It’s more than that!” Hermione argued, cheeks flushing as the passion she felt for her job simmered in her blood. “There are certain optics for politicians, and I’ve accepted that. But I will not have you mocking the good that I want to do in the world. I don’t care how cynical you are, I’m going to make a difference come hell or high water, and marrying Cormac will help me do that.”

“So romantic, love.” Sirius chuckled, shaking his head. “Sounds like the old pureblood traditions are still alive in old Blighty, then.” There was no humor in his voice; in fact, it sounded bitter, and tempered Hermione’s sudden anger. He looked… sad about it. “I’m not going to tell you how to live your life—it would be ridiculous for me to try since we’ve only just met, but you seem like a nice lass, and so maybe you’ll allow me to give you a piece of advice?”

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin. Some codswallop about how she should just settle down with a wizard and let him deal with changing the world, no doubt. She’d heard the speech before, many times. The patriarchy sure did like to remind her how little influence a single girl could have over the world.

She’d show them, though. No matter what his advice was; Hermione was going to bring the Ministry to its knees when she was done with it.

“Go on then. Tell me all about how I can’t change the world and should get myself an influential pureblood husband.” She pinched her lips. “He is, you know. A pureblood. Not that it should matter.”

Sirius rolled his eyes, waving at her vaguely. “I don’t give a toss about blood status. What you need to know is how Quidditch stars live. If you think you’ll be Minister of Magic one day while your darling Keeper stands at your side looking like a doting bit of arm candy, you’re mistaken, love.” He patted the seat Hermione had been in before they pulled off the road, inviting her to sit back down. “Come on, let’s get going. Looks like a storm’s chasing us and we want to beat it to Dublin, don’t we?”

Hermione swallowed, his words washing over her unpleasantly. She hadn’t thought of their competing careers; they’d never allowed it to come between them. But she knew that he’d never ask her to put her dreams on hold for him. With a little less vibrancy than she’d had when she argued with Sirius before, Hermione slid onto the bike, completely ignoring her broken heel.

“You’re wrong, you know.” And even though she said the words, doubt began to fester and sat like lead in her gut. “He loves me. We’ll make it work.”

Sirius kicked the engine, the motor blasting through the silence that followed her statement. As they took off down the winding road, Hermione told herself she was right. Cormac would support her. Her career would be just as important as his.

She just knew it.

* * *

  
The following hour was uneventful. They were quiet, and Hermione preferred it that way. She’d collected her thoughts and almost laughed at how quickly Sirius had her doubting the entire trip to Ireland. Of course it would be okay; Sirius didn’t know anything about her life with Cormac or how they’d helped one another after the war. It was silly that she’d gotten so worked up; everything would be fine.

It wasn’t, in fact, fine.

Dark storm clouds rolled overhead. The storm they were trying to beat to Dublin swept in like a flash. Thunder bellowed overhead, drowning out the roar of the engine. Sirius sped up and Hermione gripped him even tighter as the wind gusted and made the bike jerk under them. It seemed they were still going to try and outrun the storm. That was, until pellets of hail began raining down on them.

Sirius cursed loudly, his back expanding with every deep breath and swear word he uttered as they were pelted with hard, cold hail. He pulled off the road onto a dirt driveway, where a little wooden sign read Gallagher Bed & Breakfast. Once the bike was parked, Hermione stepped off less gracefully than she’d have liked; she’d forgotten about her broken heel and would have careened towards the ground had Sirius not caught her around the waist.

He lifted his leather jacket over their heads to shield them from the hail, and kept one arm wound around her as he led her up the path and to the door of the bed and breakfast. She stumbled with every step, but his long legs and hold on her kept her moving at his pace.

Knocking on the door, Sirius hissed a breath as the weather turned worse. Rain and sleet crashed down around them and a clap of thunder made Hermione jump into Sirius’ side. Just as he opened his mouth—likely to tell her off, she thought—the door opened and they were greeted by a gentleman with a round face and full head of gray hair.

“Hello, hello, come on in!” He opened the door to them and stepped aside while they entered the house. “Mary, we have a couple-a travelers here. Let’s get them a cuppa.”

“A’right, sweet. Comin’ right up!” Hermione didn’t see the woman, but she had a warm, tender voice as she called back to the man.

“Name’s Cyril and me wife is Mary.” His face split in the widest, most genuine grin Hermione had ever seen, and she caught herself smiling back at him. “I see your motorbike out front, you’ll need a place to stay tonight, won’t ya? Come in, come in. Get yourselves dry.”

Cyril led them further into the house and into a beautiful dining room. Neutral tones and a large, white table where Mary had set out a full service tea. Hermione’s stomach growled as she eyed the pastries and steaming brew. It wasn’t until Sirius let go of her that she realized he’d been holding onto her through the house. He smiled as he pulled out a chair for her and she was thankful to be off that blasted broken shoe.

Two pairs of shoes were ruined since her trip began. If she’d had her magic, she’d have charmed the remaining pairs into flats and been done with it. “Thanks,” she said vaguely to Sirius as he moved around her chair and sat beside her. “This is lovely, thank you both so much for your hospitality.”

“It’s no problem at all, girlie, none’t’all.” Mary’s rosy face cracked a smile as she set porcelain cups down in front of them. “Now, you can fix your own tea, and grab whatever you like from the tray for food. You’re far too peaky for my liking. We’ll take care of that. Will you be staying the night, then?”

Hermione lifted her gaze to Sirius, but he was busy filling his plate with an assortment of pastries. “Wouldn’t happen to know what the weather’s meant to be?”

“All rain tonight, I’m afraid. Nasty storms, they’re saying.” Mary poured warm water into Hermione’s cup, probably because Hermione hadn’t made a move to do it herself. “We have a spare room tonight, had to turn a couple away not too long ago.”

“Ah, the impropriety!” Cyril laughed and leaned into Sirius as if telling him a joke. “Not married! Thinking we’d allow them a room here. Imagine the scandal! No, we sent them on their way.”

Icy panic settled into Hermione’s nerves and she loosened a harsh breath. Sirius still hadn’t looked at her. Too busy with his brew. “Er, we—”

“Just wed!” Sirius interrupted, sliding his hand over hers on top of the table. He squeezed hard, and finally met her eyes. They seemed to be trying to tell her something; a notch formed between Hermione’s brow as she tried to figure it out. “We’ve just wed recently. A marvelous affair; a lot of yellow—you like yellow, don’t you, sweetheart?”

Her eyes widened a fraction, and he barely nodded his chin, when it finally clicked into place. “R-right. I just… love yellow!” Nothing could be further from the truth; she hated yellow. “And this handsome face next to me looks so dashing in daffodil, don’t you, love?”

Sirius chuckled and let go of her hand, shoulders relaxing noticeably. “Aye, the bloody daffodils, Cyril. She’s the one if she can get me in daffodils, am I right?”

The room erupted in peals of laughter, and a nervous huff left Hermione. She tried to mask it as a laugh, but her stomach was bound in coils and her blood ran cold in her veins. Forcing a smile onto her face, she nodded as Mary whispered about how lovely the wedding must have been and that they were a charming couple, and would make beautiful children. Hermione bit back the bile that rose in her throat.

“So, what brings you out our way then, travelers?” Cyril asked as silence settled over the table.

Hermione sipped her tea and took a bite of a blueberry scone before she had to think of a lie. Sirius, however, was quick on his feet.

“Late honeymoon for the missus.” He winked over the lip of his cup and glanced to Hermione as if daring her to argue. “We’re on a road trip along the countryside. I’m an innkeeper, you see, so no real time commitments to keep. And my lovely bride is between jobs presently. All the time in the world, don’t we, treacle?”

Baring her teeth, Hermione adopted the absolute sweetest tone she could and planted her hand passive-aggressively overtop Sirius’. “That’s right—we’re in no rush at all to get anywhere.”

“Wonderful, wonderful.” The older man clapped his hands together and stood from the table. “Finish off your tea and Mary will take you and your things to your room. We’ll do a large dinner tonight with our other guests if you don’t mind, and we’ll sort out the finances later.”

“Thanks, mate,” Sirius said, and sucked back the last of his tea. He waggled his eyebrows as his gaze met Hermione’s. “Ready to see our accommodations, darling?”

She was going to murder him in his sleep.

“Quite,” she ground out through her teeth before draining her cup and stuffing the last of the scone in her mouth.

* * *

  
  
“It’s our favorite room! We do hope you enjoy it!” Mary backed out of the room with her motherly smile that reminded Hermione so much of Mrs. Weasley, and closed the door behind her.

Hermione and Sirius stood side by side, neither making a sound.

The room was sickly yellow and mauve, decorated with vines and floral patterns in the most over-the-top thematic way Hermione could imagine. It was lovely, if she were the type of girl who loved pink and flowers and quaint little bed and breakfasts. She wasn’t, and the entire room felt like an attack on her senses.

Worse, there was only one bed. It wasn’t as big as the one she shared with Cormac at either of their homes. Each side had one pillow, which wouldn’t do, and there was a single quilt that covered the bed over thin, mauve sheets. Opposite of the bed was a doorwall, blocked off by a single, sheer sheet.

Hermione walked forward and yanked the sheet back, revealing a large shower and the most complicated showerhead she’d ever seen in her life. Small mercies, she thought, as she considered shoving Sirius out of the room so that she could take a nice, long shower and let her worries swirl down the drain. She turned to tell him as much, but she found him right at her back, gazing over the top of her head.

How had she not noticed how tall he was before? She craned her neck to look at him. “You get the floor, I get the bed.”

“Not bloody likely,” he answered immediately, lips barely moving as his eyes swept the shower and then landed on hers. “We’ll flip for it. Have you got a coin?”

Hermione pulled the D.A. coin from her pocket and Sirius snatched it away from her. “Haven’t seen one of these in an age. Forgot how ugly our money is back home. Muggle way makes more sense, and it’s not as heavy.”   


“Will you just flip the coin, Sirius?”

He did. Balancing the metal on the tip of his thumb, Sirius flung it into the air. “Heads I win, tails you lose.”

Hermione nodded and watched as the golden coin flipped around several times and then landed in Sirius’ palm. “Hah. Heads.” He tossed the coin to Hermione and sped over to the bed where he promptly laid down and kicked his feet up, crossing them at the ankles. “Comfortable. Lots of space. Going to be a good night for me, I reckon.”

She stared at him incredulously for a moment, a deep tug of annoyance pulling at her lips. When his eyes fluttered closed and he didn’t acknowledge her further, Hermione growled and turned about pace, stomping off to the shower. Sirius was intensely frustrating and not just because he was so suave and composed under duress—it  _ had _ been quite genius of him to secure them a room at the bed and breakfast by pretending to be married—but rather, his behavior was that of a bloke who truly didn’t give a toss. She spared him a glance over her shoulder, watching his chest rise and fall as he rested nonchalantly with his hands behind his head, and then yanked the shower curtain closed behind her with a huff.

The shower was massive, with a shelf to sit on and a caddy that had everything she could possibly need. Hermione quickly divested herself of her clothes and hung them over the curtain rod before turning the nozzle and jumping at the flash of chilly water. She heard a gruff chuckle from the direction of the bed and turned her nose up at it, deciding to ignore him. The water heated up and she stood under the spray of the shower, reveling in the hot water soothing her tense muscles. In no time at all, this would all be over and she’d be back with Cormac and on track with her plan.

It was ruddy, rotten luck that she’d be sleeping on the floor. Without magic, she couldn’t properly fluff the pillows or enchant the duvet to mimic an air mattress. Instead, Hermione would be sleeping on the hardwood floor while Sirius slept soundly on what looked like a soft, comfortable bed.

She wasn’t sure why she’d done it; left her sleeping arrangements to chance, the toss of a coin flip. Of course she’d never win; she didn’t believe in  _ luck _ . Everything she had came from hard work and perseverance. Her intellect had won her many things, not least of which was a secure position within the Ministry on a fast-track to Minister of Magic. It hadn’t been luck that defeated Voldemort and it wasn’t luck that kept her, Harry, and Ron alive for seven years. It certainly hadn’t been luck that her magic had gone funny and dropped her here with Sirius.

“Heads he wins, tails I lose,” she muttered as she wrung her hair and turned off the water. “Poxy luck. Ridiculous. Heads he wins, tails I… _ lose _ —oh, you scheming sod!”

Swiping a towel from the nearby rack, Hermione whipped it around her body and stumbled out of the shower. She cursed as she stomped over to the bed and picked up a decorative pillow to fling at Sirius’ face.

He startled with an “oi!” and crushed the pillow under his head as Hermione stared down at him.

“Heads you win, tails I lose?” she growled, clutching the small towel tighter around her body. “Did you really think I’d fall for that?”

Sirius pushed himself to sitting and leaned back against the headboard. The cheeky grin on his face only enraged her further. “Finally caught that, did ya?”

“You don’t get the bed tonight,” she informed him tersely, a blush crawling up her neck as Sirius’ gaze traveled the length of her barely covered body. “Great big cheat.”

Fuelled by ire, Hermione swatted at Sirius until he bounced up from the bed and tried to duck away from. His deep throaty laugh did nothing to calm her and instead she pelted him over and over with the palm of her hand. He caught her wrist and yanked her forward, holding her hand flat against his chest. Lifting her chin, she narrowed her eyes and ripped her hand away from him.

“I like it when you’re angry,” Sirius said, eyes alight and lips quirked at the corners. He lifted his hand, but she batted it away. “You get this fire behind your eyes, like I can see the magic inside of you.”

Hermione huffed and stepped away from him. “Just wait until I get my magic back and then I’ll show you precisely what it can do  _ outside _ of me.”

“Is that a promise?” He dodged another swipe of her hand and, with a laugh, darted behind the shower curtain.

The shower curtain that Hermione just realized was practically see-through.

An unearthly shriek ripped itself from her lungs as she watched Sirius’ shadow undress. Her face heated up and she turned away, blinking back the rather attractive silhouette that seared itself into her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and for every comment, kudo, rec, and kind word over social media. I truly appreciate you all.
> 
> Updates for this story are going to be slow coming due to some personal emergencies that aren’t on a time table. I ask for patience as I try to navigate life right now. <3
> 
> Much love, as always, to the very best friends and alphabet team who are making this story the best it can be: mcal, LadyKenz347, and In_Dreams. I don’t know what I’d do without all of you <3


	4. Only for Show

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder that similarities between Leap Year and this story will occur because the film serves as inspiration and some of my favorite scenes have been adapted in this chapter. I own nothing you recognize.

Once Hermione was dressed, she left Sirius to finish his shower. Merlin forbid he’d completely ignore propriety and walk around the room starkers just to spite her. It gave her a chance to get to know the bed and breakfast and learn her way around the home. She found that Mary and Cyril were so romantic it was painful to watch; he’d pull out her chair and kiss the top of her head and whisper things in Mary’s ear that would turn her cheeks redder than they already were. Hermione watched them from a distance and felt flutters in her heart, wondering if she and Cormac would ever have a love like that.

When the host couple kissed, Hermione turned away, dutifully allowing them privacy. She walked into a small room with a sofa and two armchairs aimed around a decent sized telly that was showing the news of the late afternoon. The wall behind the TV was lined with books, classics and pound shop books alike. Hermione grabbed an unfamiliar title from the shelf and curled up on the far corner of the settee with her feet tucked underneath her.

Just as she cracked the small book open, she glanced at the telly on a whim and paused immediately. She swung her head around to find the remote and flicked the volume up to listen to the news reporter.

“...Tourism is up almost twelve percent,” the anchor spoke with a posh lilt, cracking a smile towards his co-anchor. “Odd this time of year, isn’t it? Do you see that chap with the periwinkle—would you call that a cloak or a cape?”

“That’s a robe, Pete,” the co-anchor said with a laugh. “We have Roisin at the scene to talk with some of these tourists. Maybe someone can explain what they’re here to see! Roisin?”

“Yes, Imogen, Pete. I’m here in the city of Dublin with a man who says he’s visiting Ireland this week for work.” Roisin held her microphone out and Hermione’s stomach jumped into her throat. She leaned forward, the book dropping from her lap onto the ground, and her eyes widened. “You’re here for work—are you part of this influx of visitors to Dublin this week—what’s your name?”

A winning smile, floppy blond hair, and a Wimbourne Wasps kit; Cormac McLaggen waved at the camera and tilted his head towards it as if trying to figure out what it did exactly. Hermione couldn’t tear her eyes away as his familiar voice filled the small den.

“Hello, Roisin, so lovely to meet you.” He ran a hand through his hair, which sprung back into place, a perfect mess. “My name’s Cormac McLaggen, and I’m part of a European football club.” The ease with which he lied stoked something strange inside her, but Hermione pushed the feeling down as he continued. “We’re playing a game out in the countryside, just a friendly match with friends.”

“There you have it, folks!” Roisin grinned at the camera and gestured towards Cormac who had turned away. “Just a friendly game of football, the size of which Ireland’s not seen in many years!”

Before the camera flickered back to the newsroom, Hermione caught sight of Cormac with his arm around the waist of a beautiful brunette with a large chest and tiny waist. His smile reached his eyes as he stared down at her, and Hermione suddenly felt nauseated.

“You alright, girl?” Sirius flung himself down onto the sofa right next to her, his shoulder pressed into hers. He snorted, drawing her attention from the telly. “He’s one hundred percent fucking her.”

“What?” A rush of anxiety slid through her veins. “Why would you say that? He’s just… standing there. Being nice.”

Barking a laugh, Sirius jostled her playfully and shook his head. “No one stands that close to someone without thinking about fucking them. See how his hand’s curled around her hip, right there?” he asked, as if proud of himself for solving a puzzle. “And his eyes haven’t left her rack since I walked in the room.”

Leaning forward, Hermione squinted at the telly and scrutinized Cormac and his busty fan. The way the girl simpered at him caused something ugly to rise up within her and swell in her throat. He wasn’t discouraging her, either; his hand moved from her hip to the small of her back as he led her out of the frame of the camera.

She knew fame came with a price; witches often threw themselves at her boyfriend. They were always so lovely, giving him gifts or buying him drinks. And he rarely paid them much attention, just enough to let them feel seen and heard, and then his attention would be back on Hermione fully. But this, seeing him interacting with his fans without her at his side, made the hairs at the back of her neck raise. Trusting him was easy, but quieting her insecurities was not.

He wouldn’t do anything; Sirius was wrong. But then her mind went back to a conversation she’d had with Harry and Ron.

_ “You don’t think Cormac is cheating on you, do you?” _

_ “It’s just… you’ve never been  _ that _ girl, you know?” _

Tears pricked the corners of Hermione’s eyes as she silently pleaded for the camera to swing around to find him, to see where he was leading the girl.

A loud clap drew Hermione out of her thoughts, but she didn’t want to take her eyes off the screen. Sirius carried on in his usual, jovial voice though she missed most of what he’d said while she was trying to disprove his theory about Cormac and his fan. “...If you’re up for it?”

Hermione turned her face to the side and found him staring back at her expectantly. She shook her head as the news anchors had moved onto a different story. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Since the owners were so kind as to bring us in on such short notice,” he said as if leading her someplace, emphasis on the words as if she should be picking up something in his tone. Her mind was fuzzy, though, and she grasped none of his meaning. “I thought we’d give them a treat. What d’you say?”

Nevermind that she had no idea how to cook much more than a microwavable meal, Hermione still nodded her head. She didn’t realize what she’d agreed to with her head still in a fog from the way Cormac’s arm slung around an unfamiliar, slender body. Her attention was away with the fairies until she felt something warm on her cheek.

“Hey, you alright?” Her eyes flicked to his, and that was when she realized the warmth came from Sirius’ hand, and she shifted away, fully started from her thoughts. “There you are. Thought we’d lost you for a moment there. Going to tell me what this catatonic state is about?”

Hermione cleared her throat, swallowing around a dry lump and then shaking her head as she shoved her insecurities away. “No, sorry, just lost in the telly. Haven’t watched one in quite a while and forgot how magical it was.”

The corners of Sirius’ lips lifted and she couldn’t tell if he believed her or not. He clapped his hands against his thighs and stood, offering his hand to help hoist her off the sofa. “Let’s have a look at Cyril’s garden, see what trouble we can get into, shall we?”

Somehow, Sirius Black searching for trouble pulled her fully back to the present, and Hermione hopped up, chasing him out of the house to try to keep him out of said trouble.

* * *

Hermione lost herself as they wandered the garden collecting various vegetables and spices for the meal ahead. Visceral memories of foraging for mushrooms while on the run flooded her mind. She wasn’t a decent cook then either, but had been delegated to cooking meals because—much to her consternation—she was the  _ girl _ . The boys had never outright said it, but she also knew that if it hadn’t been her searching for edible food, they’d likely have ended up poisoned from spoiled food or deadly berries.

Now, while she searched the garden for carrots and potatoes for their dinner, Hermione found herself measuring everything to perfection in a vain attempt to keep her mind from wandering. The carrots matched in length and girth, the potatoes were all of equal size. It was something that Sirius had poked fun at her over, which only riled the insecurities she’d tried to shove away earlier.

“If you keep your face pinched like that, it’ll stay that way forever.” He squatted next to her in the middle of a patch of leeks. “What’s got your wand in a knot?”

She rolled her eyes and tossed a medium-sized leek into the basket of collected veggies. “I’m not a fan of foraging for food,” she said, digging her hands into the earth and uprooting another leek. “It reminds me of a time I’d rather forget, if you must know.”

Sirius made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. “I’m familiar with the feeling.” He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I think we have enough for our meal. Why don’t we clean this off and start chopping, yeah?”

He wiped his dirty hands on his jeans and then reached out to help her up from the ground. She was quick to take his hand and slow to let it go, their gazes locking for longer than was probably appropriate. Tearing her eyes from his, Hermione graced him with a small smile, turning with her basket of vegetables in tow. She barely heard him enter the house behind her, but felt him at her side as she started to run the water.

They worked in tandem for several minutes; the only noise between them was the gentle flow of water. It was strange how something as simple as uprooting vegetables could bring her back in time. Memories of the war mixed unpleasantly with the absurdity of a young Sirius Black appearing in her life. If he'd been alive— if he'd been with them—perhaps things would have turned out differently. Hermione flinched as a vision of Harry’s lifeless body flashed through her mind and a long string of events that fell into place after that day followed. If one thing had gone differently she might not have ever taken up with Cormac in the first place.

No. She let a long breath out as she washed the dirt off a long, thick carrot. Thinking that way wouldn’t change anything, she knew that.

She let her gaze travel to Sirius as he peeled a potato. The veins in his forearm stood out against his pale skin, and his muscles jumped with every swipe of the blade. The peels fell into the sink, and she snuck a casual glance up, studying the way his concentration formed a notch between his brows. Briefly, she wondered if he was some cosmic gift to her and not really alive at all. He was handsome; that much was obvious as Hermione’s eyes flitted over his features. Her eyes travelled the sharp cut of his jaw and fullness of his lips. And there was something to be said about the thick stubble that covered the lower half of his face; it made a boy a man and she couldn't help but imagine running a finger along his cheek just to memorize the feel of it.

While she noted and catalogued each of his features, his grey eyes remained locked on the task at hand. This strange version of Sirius Black was nothing like the man she knew—just an echo of someone she used to know. With all the force of a well-executed stunner, the realization that she was actually happy to have Sirius in her life again slammed into her.

“Take a picture,” he muttered out the side of his mouth, “it’ll last longer.”

Hermione spluttered a nonsensical response and turned her gaze to the carrot still dangling in her hold. “That’s not—I wasn’t—” Pinching her eyes closed, she let out a strange squeak and settled on, “You’re just so… surprising.”

Heat pooled in her cheeks; no matter how hard she tried to ignore it, Hermione could feel his gaze hard on her. “Am I now?” Sirius chuckled softly and stole the carrot out of her useless hands. “Carrots are easy to clean, you know? Just give ‘em a nice run down the length like this.” His knife sheared the outer layer of the vegetable and, frankly, it didn’t look  _ clean _ or appropriate at all. “Couple of good runs like this. Give me your hand.”

He didn’t wait for her to follow his directions, just grabbed her hand and placed it over the carrot with his hand over hers. Running his hand up and down, she followed the movements and felt wholly filthy doing so, wondering what kind of blatant innuendo he was trying to sneak by her, and yet—and  _ yet _ , she couldn’t bring herself to pull away. Sirius moved closer, his hip just behind hers, arm moving around her shoulders, and resumed his unnecessary instruction on how to clean a carrot.

Loose curls brushed against her cheek, his rhythmic breath fanning over her ear as her own lungs began to quicken. “That’s right, just like that. If you don’t grip it tight enough, you miss the harder to reach places, the grooves.”

Squeezing the carrot harder, Hermione lifted her chin over her shoulder so she could look into his eyes. A hitched breath escaped her when she found their lips only scant inches apart. Her eyes darted to the bow of his lips, then up again to find his darkened gaze trained on her as his hips jerked behind her.

“‘Ello, loves!”

Sirius and Hermione broke apart as if they’d been caught snogging where they shouldn’t have been. A fevered blush crawled up her neck and she took to chewing on the side of her lip and squeezing her eyes closed as if that would help her simply vanish on the spot. No such luck, though; now more than ever, she missed her magic.Sirius recovered faster, turning on the spot and addressing Mary with a cheery greeting.

“‘Lo, Mary!” He jostled next to her, shoving his shoulder into hers. She groaned and turned, forcing her eyes open but keeping them trained on the floor. “Nearly done, I think. Food’ll go in soon and it’ll be on the table in an hour and a half. Do you have any good red wine?”

“I’ve got just the ticket!” Mary clapped her hands together and it drew Hermione’s attention. The older woman stared at Hermione with a knowing smile, and then turned from the room. “Cyril has a bottle of Bordeaux hidden away that’ll be lovely. We’ll let our other guests know when to expect the meal.”

As Mary left the room, Sirius reached over to Hermione, but she bristled and stepped out of his touch. “I’ll get the chicken in the cooker while you chop the veg.”

Before he had a chance to answer, Hermione followed Mary out of the room.

* * *

  
  


The couple sharing the bed and breakfast with Sirius and Hermione were charming. Italian tourists in Ireland celebrating a second honeymoon. And though they were lovely, their affectionate displays put her on edge at dinner. They sat uncomfortably close, holding onto one another and whispering back and forth. At a particularly hushed giggle, Hermione was fairly certain there was inappropriate touching under the table. Mary and Cyril appeared not to notice, but she caught Sirius’ eye and he pressed his lips into a line to keep from laughing.

“Ah, it’s lovely! Hermione, you’ve done a brilliant job with the vegetables—how’d you get the carrot so sweet?”

Hermione choked on her sip of wine, and Sirius thumped her on the back as she sputtered out a broken “thank you”.

“She’s humble about her cooking, aren’t you darling?” Sirius’ hand ran circles on her back while she caught her breath, and despite the warning glare she sent him, he continued on. “I’m always saying Hermione has a proclivity for handling carrots, knows just how to give ‘em a toss to make ‘em sweet. Don’t you, sweetheart?”

While the table fawned over his praise of his ‘wife’, Hermione muttered, “I’m going to kill you,” out the corner of her mouth, earning her a winning smirk from her pseudo-husband.

“To be so young and in love! Cyril, we remember that, don’t we, love?” Mary turned to her husband and planted a sweet kiss on his lips, but then Cyril grabbed her by the cheeks and deepened it for a moment. When he pulled away, Mary’s cheeks were the color of ripe tomatoes and her wide grin was untamable. “It’s all in the kiss, I say. You know you’ve married the right one when his kiss makes you feel like you’ve fallen in love all over again.”

“The kiss,” the Italian patron, Stefano, said before turning to his wife, caressing the side of her face with a massive hand, and then drawing her in for a lingering kiss that was nearly uncomfortable to watch. When their lips finally parted, his eyes remained locked on his wife’s. “It’s the most important aspect of marriage. Give her a kiss like it’s both your first and your last.”

“Go on then!” Cyril waved his hand at them. “Give your woman a real kiss now, son.” 

Hermione froze for two heartbeats. She swung her eyes to Sirius and caught him shaking his head and she sagged; thankfully he wasn’t keen on the idea either.

“Oh, don’t tell us you’re shy now! Mary told me she saw you cozied up in the kitchen.”

Sirius’ arm slung casually around her shoulders as he scooted closer. Warmth radiated from him, and Hermione warred with herself about twisting her body towards him. It wasn’t that she  _ couldn’t _ kiss Sirius, it was that suddenly she thought, maybe, she  _ wanted _ to. His lips were moist and red, inviting her eyes to flit over the silky flesh with a sudden burning desire.

“What’s a kiss among friends, eh?” Mary goaded them, and the rest of the table began to remark on their need to be bold, urging them to just kiss already.

Sirius placed a finger to Hermione’s chin and tilted it up, forcing her gaze to his. Silently, he sought her consent.

And while her fidelity screamed no, she dropped her eyes again to his inviting lips and gave a barely restrained nod of her head.

His hands slid to the base of her skull, fingers curling into the roots of her curls, and he cocked her head to the side. Just before he pressed his lips to hers, Sirius let out a puff of heat, a quick smirk playing on the edge of his lips before capturing her mouth with his. She didn’t mean to let her eyes flutter closed and she  _ certainly _ hadn’t meant to snake her hands up his chest and around his neck, but as he slipped his tongue into her mouth, Hermione lost all sensibilities.

Time stopped. The world could have gone and imploded and Hermione wouldn’t have noticed a thing. A scorching fire raged through her body, dancing its way through her veins and lighting the nerves along her spine. Never in her life, not one single kiss had ever made her feel this. Maddening and content and needy all at once.

“Alright, alright, you’ve shown us old folks how it’s done,” Cyril laughed, and a round of chuckles made its way around the table.

They both jumped at the intrusion, remembering where they were. Sirius pulled away, his hands still wound in her hair. Hermione couldn’t bring herself to move, to breathe, to open her eyes. She just wanted to savor it a moment longer. It wasn’t until Sirius extricated his hold on her that she licked her lips and turned back towards the table with a pool of heat settling in her belly. In an effort to gain control over her senses, she latched onto her long stemmed wine glass and tossed back far more than a sip.

* * *

After cleaning up dinner, which Stefano and his beautiful wife offered to do, the two couples found themselves in front of the telly with a movie playing before them. There was no film in the world that could possibly hold her attention, though. Hermione was molded into Sirius’ side on one end of the sofa while Stefano and his wife canoodled at the other end. 

_ It was only for show _ , she told herself when Sirius wound his arm around her shoulder, and furthermore it only made sense that she’d laid her head on the groove between his arm and his chest. His chin rested on top of her head while her hand rested just beneath her chin on his chest.

Her mind replayed their stolen kiss over and over, and though her eyes were glued to the screen, she didn’t see anything happening on it. Instead, she remembered the feel of his lips on hers, the way he’d owned the kiss, confident and sure as he slid his tongue against hers. The heavy breath he’d let loose through his nose when she opened herself. The way he’d asked her permission first, and then the way she’d given it as if she were free to do so. The way she wished she was.

Hermione squeezed her eyes closed, an unpleasant feeling rolling through her. She could rationalize a kiss to get herself out of a predicament, but what she  _ couldn’t _ do was pretend as if the kiss meant nothing at all.

In other words, Hermione was royally bollocksed.

The sooner she was in Dublin, the better. Yes, they’d pack up early and get on the road; it wouldn’t take them very long from here—maybe a couple of hours, and then she’d be with Cormac and would compartmentalize all of these unwelcome feelings until they disappeared.

It wasn’t the best plan, but it was her only plan. 

The rhythmic thumping of Sirius’ heart lulled her into a peaceful sleep and even the sound of explosions from the film didn’t wake her.

When she woke up, Hermione was no longer upright, but lying in bed. She cracked her eyes open to find Sirius lying next to her, his face blissfully blank with slumber. It was the first time she’d seen him at peace, unburdened by his mask of sarcasm and snark. She’d never known him to be so unguarded and it tugged at her heart to realize that despite the fact that this Sirius might never have gone through the horrors that  _ her _ Sirius had, he certainly had his burdens to bear.

Reaching out, Hermione raked her fingers through the hair that laid like a curtain over half his face and pushed the locks behind his ear. His eyes popped open and she slowly lowered her hand away from his face. Before it hit the bed, Sirius scooped her hand up and brought the back of it to his lips, placing a gentle kiss upon her knuckles.

“Goodnight, Sirius,” Hermione whispered, tugging her hand gently away from him.

He tossed her a quick, small smile. “Goodnight, love.”

At the endearment, Hermione’s heart thumped painfully against her sternum. The one thing she was absolutely certain of was that Sirius made her feel things that Cormac had never even broached. Excitement, rather than complacency. Seen, rather than overlooked. And, most recently: confident, rather than insecure.

And she didn’t know what that meant for her grand future plans.


	5. A Bloody Nightmare

Hermione’s eyes fluttered open slowly. Sunlight filtered into the bedroom through the curtains, casting an ethereal glow of golden light around the room. She blinked back the sleepy haze in her eyes and noticed Sirius tangled around her, his arms wound over her waist and her legs trapped between his. His breath came out in sharp, hot bursts against her cheek, sending frizzy hair flying around her face.

A gasp slipped between her lips at the startling realization that Sirius’ mouth was  _ right there _ —a hair’s breadth from her own—and she launched herself back, out of his arms.

“Morning, sunshine,” he whispered hoarsely, not bothering to open his eyes. “You snore.”

“I do not!” A blush swept across her cheeks.

Cracking his eyes open, he stretched out with his arms above his head and released an obnoxious yawn as he slid onto his back. “And how would you know?”

“Well, I—” She wasn’t sure, and clamped her mouth shut as her gaze flitted to the hem of his shirt sliding up his torso, revealing more skin than she felt comfortable seeing while they shared a bed. Determined not to allow him to win the argument, she huffed and pushed herself off the bed in one fluid movement. “I just do. Cormac would tell me.”

An amused chuckle followed Hermione to the shower where she yanked the sheer curtain back and hid until she knew Sirius had left the room.

When she stepped into the little dining nook for a spot of tea and breakfast, Sirius greeted her with one of his wide, charming smiles and a flyaway wink that sent warmth coursing through her veins. She wondered briefly if he knew the effect he had on her. If so, Hermione was certain he’d use his powers for evil and so she decided to make a more concerted effort to hide the fluttery feelings rising within her.

“Finish your breakfast,” she said primly, refusing to make eye contact with him as she slathered a scone with cream. “We should leave for Dublin immediately and then we can put the past twenty-four hours behind us.”

The hairs on the back of her neck rose; she could sense the heat of his stare on the side of her face. A distinct prickling sensation she couldn’t shake. “That’s what you want, is it?”

“That’s what I’ve wanted since the beginning,” she fired back without missing a beat, and then shoved the scone in her mouth to keep from saying anything further.

It didn’t stop Sirius from carrying on, though. He swiped the butter knife right from her hand and began lathering up his scone with jam—the heathen. “There are any number of things you could’ve done to leave for Dublin last night before you snogged me.” A piece of scone lodged in her throat, and she coughed violently as he nattered on. “Calling a cab, for one. Perhaps asking Cyril for a lift? And have you tried your magic since you’ve been here? Face it, love: you fancy me.”

Hermione forced scalding tea down her throat, swallowed around the burn, and put her hand up before Sirius could make any further outlandish and, frankly, ridiculous accusations. “I  _ have _ tried my magic, and if it were possible for me to Apparate away and leave you to your own defences, I would have done it already.” His scoff grated on her nerves, and she sucked her lips between her teeth as she drew a deep, steadying breath through flared nostrils before fully turning towards him. “I  _ didn’t  _ snog you— _ you _ snogged  _ me _ . And—” She put her hand right to his open mouth to stop whatever was about to fly out of it. “I don’t fancy you, you gigantic muppet.”

Sirius didn’t respond. Instead, his warm tongue dragged a wet line along the palm of her hand. Hermione yanked it away and sent the sourest glare in his direction. The innocent grin she got in return made her blood boil.

Pushing away from the table with shaky legs and clammy hands, Hermione stormed from the room to avoid hearing any argument that could be made for how she  _ did _ melt into his kiss the night before, and how, if under threat of Veritaserum, she might, perhaps, possibly, be  _ forced _ to admit that a small, really very tiny and inconsequential part of her might, perhaps, possibly fancy Sirius Black.

And that was a whole can of flobberworms she didn’t want to open.

Hermione raced through the house in search of Cyril or Mary, determined to ask to use their phone to call a cab. When she rounded a corner, she came nose-to-chest with Cyril, who laughed and steadied her with a big, meaty hand to her shoulder.

“Someone’s in a hurry this mornin’, are ya?” He backed away to an acceptable distance and grinned down at her with a charming smile lifting his rosy cheeks. “What’re you and the lad planning for the day?”

“I’d like to use your phone for a cab to Dublin, please.” She was all business, lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders in the way she usually did at work to get her way. Men didn’t like assertive women, she’d noticed, and so Hermione found that in making them uncomfortable they’d usually give her whatever she wanted if it meant she’d leave them alone.

“Ah, I’d love to help ya, but the phone’s out from the storms.” Cyril slid his hands underneath his suspenders and frowned. “Been a bit of a pickle the last few days with the weather. Expecting more storms today across the land. Best if you stay another night.”

“No.” She hadn’t meant to say it out loud, and not quite so harshly, but Cyril only chuckled and stepped around her. Of course he wouldn’t realize how dire the situation had become. Hermione needed to get him on her side, and so she forced out an apology in an attempt to garner his sympathy. “Sorry, Cyril. What I mean is that I need to get to Dublin today.”

“And why’s that, petal?” Sirius’ infuriating face appeared from around the corner and he slid his arm around her shoulders. Tensing as she lifted her gaze to his, annoyance bloomed across her face in pools of crimson. “What’s so important in Dublin?”

Having never been much for murder, Hermione found that over the past twenty-four hours, she’d wanted to do far more  _ Avada _ -ing than ever before. She pinched her lips, turning her sights back to Cyril, and then forced a saccharine smile onto her face. “Absolutely nothing, of course. We’re in no rush, are we, my love?”

Cyril’s face lit up like Yule at Hogwarts as Sirius squeezed Hermione closer to his side and laughed. “Not at all. Another night sounds ace.”

There was nothing to be done; he’d won this round, and so Hermione forced a tight-lipped smile and watched as Cyril strolled away, none the wiser to the tension brewing between his guests. When he was out of sight, Hermione yanked herself out of Sirius’ hold and planted her hands on her hips.

She glared so hard her eye twitched. “Why are you doing this?”

His response was a simple shrug before he took off after Cyril and left Hermione seething in his wake.

* * *

Avoiding Sirius around the bed and breakfast had been easy throughout the day. Cyril kept him occupied with questions about Betty—a conversation that had sent Hermione straight into the kitchen to help Mary bake her pastries for the morning. 

It was surprising how much she enjoyed learning the little tips and tricks that Mary had to offer, but more than that it reminded her of home when she was growing up, warm and pleasant, with comforting scents filling the air. With her parents living in Australia under the alias Hermione had manufactured for them, she’d missed having a domestic sort of life. Merlin knew she didn’t have that life with Cormac; hell, they rarely saw one another outside of the evenings.

Despite that spending time with Mary had tempered Hermione’s anger over Sirius, thinking of Cormac sent waves of guilt crashing through her. She loved her boyfriend, soon-to-be fiancé, but in just twenty-four hours, she’d allowed doubt to seep into her thoughts. Flashes of Cormac smiling down at a gorgeous brunette flickered through her mind.

“Fetch that platter, would ya, dearie?” Mary nudged Hermione lightly with her shoulder. “You’re lost in thought. Is it the newlywed jitters?”

Hermione reached for the serving platter while staring out the kitchen window and watching the dreary rain fall relentlessly from the dark sky. “Something like that. Did you ever wonder if you were making the right decision with Cyril, Mary?”

Silence hung in the air with an oppressive thickness, and she wanted to take it back, pretending she never asked the question. But Mary's answering smile with mischievous, twinkling eyes settled her nerves. Mary’s hand patted her shoulder.

“Forever’s an awfully long time to spend with someone that makes you question your instincts. But I’ll let you in on a little secret, shall I?” Resting her round hip against the countertop, Mary folded her hands across her belly and settled her eyes on Hermione in a way that reminded her of Dumbledore’s penetrating gaze. She shifted under the weight of it and dragged the corner of her lip between her teeth the way she used to when she thought she’d get a telling off by the headmaster. “You and your husband are meant for each other. We can see it—all of us here. The way he looks at you, like a cat watchin’ a mouse. That kinda chase never goes away.”.”

And, as if that were the end of the matter, Mary pushed away from the countertop, loaded the platter with food, and swept from the kitchen before Hermione could formulate an argument. She was wrong, of course; she could only see what Hermione and Sirius had fabricated in order to stay at the bed and breakfast. It was all ruse, and nothing more.

But then, Hermione wondered why, if it were all a lie, she felt an aching smile climbing her cheeks.

* * *

No one forced her to snog Sirius during this evening’s dinner, and Hermione was grateful for it. She managed to keep a respectable distance between them and only felt the brush of his fingertips once while reaching for the porcelain gravy boat. There had been a shiver of electricity through her body and Sirius looked at her with a brow raised, and then they’d moved on. With  _ no _ snogging. Which, of course, suited Hermione just fine.

After dinner, the inhabitants of the bed and breakfast all congregated in the small telly den, squished side by side and sharing a rather large bottle of poitín. Hermione wasn’t a drinker, but with Sirius so close and so carefree, jostling her as he reached for the bottle, and rewarding her with a massive, cheeky smile, she threw caution to the wind. Snatching the bottle from his loose grip, she swigged a greedy pull from it and nearly spat every last drop onto Sirius as she whipped her head towards him.

“This is vile!” She thrust the bottle toward him, silently begging him to take it from her. “How can you possibly drink this? It tastes like pure alcohol.”

As if she’d issued him a personal challenge, Sirius lifted the bottle while maintaining intense eye contact and chugged back several gulps of the clear liquid without so much as a wince. The others in the den cheered him on—Cyril, the loudest, clapped his hands and exclaimed that Sirius was a true Irish lad through and through. 

Hermione wanted to be annoyed at the antics, but instead found her eyes tracing the bob of his throat, the way the planes of it constricted around each swallow, and how his fingers clenched around the neck of the bottle. When his lips lifted at the corners and he finally pulled the bottle away from them, a warm, pleasant burn that had nothing to do with the alcohol settled low in her abdomen.

A loud clap of thunder shook the wood-paneled walls. Hermione jumped into Sirius, who wound his arm around her shoulders and held her just tight enough that she couldn’t move without it looking like an awkward struggle to get away. He was rather warm and after several moments, her body relaxed into his. As the conversation turned towards music, Hermione found herself laughing along with the others.

“Don’t think I’ve seen this side of you yet,” Sirius whispered in her ear and when Hermione snapped her eyes to his, the smile slowly fading from her lips, she found him staring back at her with smoldering, dark grey eyes. “I like it when you laugh.”

“Shame you’re not funnier then,” she quipped back at him without missing a beat, earning her a wider, wolfish grin in return. When his hold grew tighter around her shoulders, instead of shying away, Hermione turned her cheek and chuckled against his chest. “You’re not at all how I thought you were.”

She pulled back to meet his eyes again and the carefree look was gone. It was replaced with something challenging—pinched eyebrows, thin lips, and inquisitive eyes—as his gaze flickered across her face. For a moment, Hermione thought he might swoop in to kiss her, and she wasn’t sure that she’d stop him. Whatever was going to happen, it was interrupted by Cyril’s voice booming through the den. Hermione swung her face around to look over the back of the sofa to find Cyril staring out the window with sheer disbelief in his eyes.

“Bloody menace, where ya goin’?” Cyril’s voice trembled with a laugh and he ran a thick hand through his thinning, gray hair. “Eejit, he is. Mary, the bleeding thing’s out in the rain again.”

“Oh, he’ll be fine.” Mary waved a hand and turned back to the other couple in the room, recanting her recipe for chicken stew as Cyril bellowed on after the cat. “Can’t tame the wild out of an animal if he don’t want it, can ya?”

It was certainly true, Hermione thought; Crookshanks had a wilder nature and she was never able to tame that side of him. And, she supposed the same could be said for Sirius—even his aristocratic, Unforgivable Curse wielding family couldn’t tame his Gryffindor heart. Hermione glanced to Sirius out of the corner of her eye and wondered if it was that side of him that attracted her. It was dangerous to be around him, that was for sure. She sank into him so easily and forgot about the life she was building outside of their little adventure to Dublin—a life that didn’t suit the life Sirius was living here in Ireland. 

Hermione pushed herself away from Sirius, but he followed close behind her as she approached Cyril and glanced out the window. “We can run out and bring him back in, if you’d like.” The silhouette of the fat, white cat bounced as it padded across the garden towards a large barn. “It’s no problem, and the least we could do for all your hospitality these last two days.”

“You want to run out into the rain to grab a cat?” Sirius’ chest bumped against her back, his hands resting against her sides. “And you see no way this can go wrong?”

She lifted her chin and steeled her expression as she faced him. If it were Crooks, she’d be chasing him down already, brokering no room for argument. “No. There’s a whole lot that can go wrong for the cat if it’s caught out in the rain overnight, especially if the storms get more severe.” Hermione placed a hand on Cyril’s arm. “It won’t take us long—looks like he’s headed into the barn.”

“Ah, you’re a sweet bunch, you are.” Cyril chuckled and turned from the window. “If you wouldn’t mind, we’d be grateful. Little Jameson tends to get himself trapped in that old barn. He fancies the roost up at the top, no doubt you’ll find him there, the little bugger.”

Cyril gave them an umbrella to share, but as Hermione and Sirius made their way across the mucky, wet garden with the rain falling overhead, it hardly made a bit of difference. Hermione’s hair still grew to epic proportions and though Sirius was much taller—so the umbrella should have repelled all the rain—it didn’t stop the sideways raindrops from pelting her anyway. Her hair was a lost cause as they entered the barn through a squeaky side door.

The inside smelled of farm animals and earth. Hay littered the corners while large machinery sat rusting and unused. From the look of it, the barn hadn’t been functional in several years, and likely wasn’t cleaned very often. Hermione had to crane her neck to see the roost high at the top with a ladder appearing as the only way to get up there.

“He’s just there,” she said to Sirius, pointing at the swishing, white tail hanging over the edge of the roost. “Jameson—” She pinched her lips and clicked her tongue against the back of her teeth, trying to get the cat’s attention. It didn’t budge; stubborn bugger.

“I’m not climbing up after the mangy sod.” Sirius set the umbrella down against a long, wooden beam and turned to Hermione with his hands lodged in his pockets. “If he wants to come down, he will, but I’m not breaking my neck for that beast.”

“Why?” Hermione placed her hands on her hips, narrowing her eyes at him. “Don’t you like cats?”

His barking laugh echoed around the barn. “Can’t stand the bloody things, and the feeling is mutual. We’re best to wait for the git to crawl down here, and then you can carry him back inside to Cyril.”

“He won’t crawl down to us.” She wasn’t sure there was a cat alive that would follow commands, especially of two humans it didn’t know. “I wish my magic worked; I cast a good  _ Locomotor Mortis _ .”

“Give it a wave, see if it works?” Sirius backed himself against the barn wall. “Sometimes magic just needs a little incentive. If you’re that set on getting the cat down, maybe it’ll work.”

“The incentive should have been arriving in Dublin to see my boyfriend,” she argued, but still withdrew her wand from her waistband. “I don’t think it’ll work, but—”

With a swish of her wand and precise aim, Hermione recited the spell with perfect diction. A few measly sparks lit the end of it, but puttered out almost immediately. She shook the wand as if it were an old pail of paint and tried again. Sparks again, but nothing significant. Groaning and stuffing the wand back into its holder in the waist of her jeans, Hermione issued a frustrated sigh and saddled up next to Sirius against the wall.

“Any other brilliant ideas then?”

Sirius slid down the length of the wall and sat with his legs out in front of him, hands folded in his lap. With his chin cocked and an irritating grin on his face, he invited her to join him with a quick flick of his brow. “Wait it out?”

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest and begrudgingly took a seat beside him. “Not like we have another choice, I suppose.”

“We always have a choice.” He grabbed her hand and pulled it into his lap, enveloping it between his and rubbing his thumb over her skin. “You could have chosen any number of things that wouldn’t have you sitting in a leaky barn with a rogue innkeeper during a thunderstorm. Yet, here we are.”

She studied their hands and how easily they fit together. Of course she knew she should have pulled away, but the way his thumb tracked a course along her pulse point left her entranced, and despite knowing full well that she  _ should _ , she didn’t. 

They were quiet for a long moment with only the sound of the rain tapping steadily against the barn roof breaking the silence. The occasional boom of thunder rattled the cheap wood, and absently she scooted closer to him. That’s how Hermione reasoned that she ended up ever closer to Sirius, their outer thighs pressed together.

She watched the cat’s tail batting back and forth, and Hermione knew she was in for a long night of waiting. Settling her head on Sirius’ shoulder, she sank into his warmth and listened to the steady rhythm of his breath. It wasn’t until his hand left hers that she startled and lifted her eyes to find him staring back at her in that mesmerizing way that sent flutters through her stomach.

“That football player on the telly,” Sirius said, his eyebrows pinched. “That’s your Quidditch star, is it?”

“How could you possibly know that?” Hermione dipped her gaze down, shame rolling through her to admit that counties away, her boyfriend was likely shacking up with one of his many groupies.

Fingers pressed against her chin and lifted it so that she was forced to meet his eyes again. A corner of his lips lifted, and Sirius’ face edged closer still. “You haven’t been right since; a little more fiery if that’s possible. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. Rather like it when you get riled up.”

“You have to stop telling me things like that,” Hermione said, unable to contain the short burst of breathy laughter that escaped her. This was the Sirius she’d always heard about from Andromeda—relentlessly flirty and roguish. She’d forgotten to mention how handsome he’d been before Azkaban’s decay seeped into his bones. 

Sirius tilted his head, eyes sparkling. His thumb brushed across her blushing cheekbone. “And why’s that?”

“Because…” Blushing, she tried to look away but he held her more firmly in place. “I have a—”

“Boyfriend, I know. We established that he’s likely getting a leg over with that brunette.” Somehow he’d grown even closer and she couldn’t force herself to move away. “Before you run off and propose to him, don’t you want to know for sure he’s a faithful man?”

“He is!” When he scoffed, Hermione huffed. “All this coming from the bloke who introduced himself as a playboy?” A skeptical brow hitched over her eye, but he only chuckled in response. “It’s not funny, Sirius. There’s a lot at stake here, and I can’t just—just  _ snog _ you.”

“But you want to?” Playful as ever, Sirius waggled his brows.

Hermione yanked her face away from him and pushed herself from the floor in one swift movement. Space, that’s what she needed—away from Sirius and his ruggedly handsome face and his suggestive lips and come hither eyes. Pulling her wand and trying to cast a spell to catch the bloody cat again, Hermione swore when it didn’t work. Trying and trying, her breath sped up and tears began to form in her eyes as her desperation sent her spiraling.

Hands gripped her hips and spun her, bringing her face-to-chin with Sirius. He enveloped her in a hug and held her tight against his chest as she let her insecurities wash over his Pink Floyd shirt in big, warm tears.

His voice vibrated against her ear. “It’s alright, love. You’re probably right.” 

Puffy-eyed, Hermione reared back and stared up at him. Her voice was small, unsure. “You really think so?”

He tried to run his fingers through her hair, but they tangled in the chaotic curls. Instead, he rested his palms against the sides of her neck and smiled down at her. “You’re a beautiful witch. Brilliant too, I reckon. He’d be mad to go behind your back with someone else.”

“Thank you,” she said in a near whisper, and then—not really certain what drove her to do it—Hermione pressed a soft kiss to the corner of Sirius’ mouth. She lingered against his stubbled cheek for far too long and as she made to pull away, his lips chased hers until they were slanted over top of them. She wanted to blame the poitín as she wound her arms around his neck, but then Sirius maneuvered her back against the barn wall and she was lost to the feel of him. A desperate noise left her throat as his tongue swept into her mouth. He tasted like alcohol and kissed like wildfire; sparks zinged along her every nerve and her stomach twisted in the most delicious knots.

His hands dragged from her neck to her hips and pulled her flush against his torso. The jolt brought Hermione to her senses, and she ripped herself from him with a gasp. He stepped into her, mouth open to say something she assumed would be suave—it would knock her off her feet and have her pressed against him again in an instant. Before she could ask him to stop, before she could talk herself out of doing something extremely stupid, a blur of white passed through her vision and the barn filled with the sound of Sirius swearing.

“Fucking hell, what the bloody—”

Hermione watched as Jameson the cat attached himself to Sirius’ shoulders and began attacking Sirius’ hair with its sharp teeth.

“Aww, Jameson, it’s okay!” Stepping forward as Sirius flailed around to try and dislodge the cat, Hermiome reached out and plucked him away. Sirius hissed as the cat’s claws dragged down his arms, but Hermione merely cradled Jameson in her arms and rubbed his chin with her index finger. “You just don’t like big, smelly dogs, do you boy?”

“Oi, I haven’t been a dog in a long time. And even if I was—” Sirius glared at the lazy, unencumbered cat as if he wanted nothing more than to take it by the neck and toss it back into the rain. “That’s not a cat, it’s a bloody nightmare.”

As unfortunate as it was that Sirius had bloody claw marks down his arm, Hermione was grateful for the distraction. She kept her eyes on the cat as she addressed Sirius. “Grab the umbrella—I think Cyril will be happy to see his little friend safe and sound.”

“Little friend,” Sirius grumbled, following her instructions despite his sour attitude. “You have a skewed sense of priorities, Hermione Granger.”

She ignored the familiar words as they started their trek through the rain in silence. Jameson swatted at Sirius any time his arm brushed against Hermione’s, and even though the heated moment between them had passed, she couldn’t quite stop her heart from pounding against her ribcage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued love to my alphabet team: mcal, LadyKenz347, and In_Dreams. <3
> 
> I forgot that I had a chapter nestled away for the last month waiting to post! So as I finish up the next two chapters, I'm happy to have something to put out here now. Thank you so much for reading and so much for extending grace as I worked through some personal things. Stay safe and healthy, everyone <3


	6. Don't Scare It Away

Hermione double and triple-checked her bags—and her magic  _ again _ , to no avail—as she listened to the news report filtering through the house.

_ “It’s the strangest thing, Roisin: we can’t find the football match anywhere near Dublin.”  _ A cheerful chuckle followed the newscaster’s words, and then he added,  _ “It’s as if anyone looking forgets what it is they’re trying to find.” _

_ “Almost like there’s magic falling over the city, Pete.” Roisin joined her co-host in laughter. “Wouldn’t be the first time we’ve had strange events happening around the Emerald Isle, eh?” _

For a group of people so hell-bent on ignoring the magic all around them, Muggles were surprisingly attuned to it. Smiling as her fingers closed over the porous wood of her vinewood wand, Hermione stuffed it deep into her bag and out of reach. The frustration of not being able to use her magic was best left out of sight and out of mind. As, it seemed, was her predicament with Cormac.

She was positively lusting after Sirius Black, which was problematic for a multitude of reasons. One: she was pre-engaged. Two: for all she knew, _ this _ Sirius Black was really some imposter or figment of her imagination or she was having some sort of magical hallucination or, perhaps, she was in St. Mungo’s Janus Thickey Ward and none of this was real. And three: even if it  _ were _ real, and she wasn’t pre-engaged, Sirius Black was  _ so _ not the bloke she envisioned settling down with.

Sighing, she closed her bag and gave one last sweep of the room before heading downstairs. 

Saying goodbye to Cyril and Mary was surprisingly emotional; she felt, despite only knowing them for a couple of days, they’d made quite the connection with the old couple. She left her address with Mary, asking to keep in touch. Only after she was sat on Sirius’ motorbike did Hermione realized she left the wrong address—the one to her flat in Diagon—rather than Cormac’s.

“Alright, girl?” Sirius asked as he plunked the helmet onto her head, helping to snap the clip into place under her chin. An easy smile slid across his lips when she nodded, his gaze lingering on hers for a moment too long. “I know you’re itching to get to Dublin, but I have something I’d like to show you if you’re game?”

Hermione knew she shouldn’t. Not only was time not on her side, but she still had a list of things to accomplish once arriving in Dublin, each of them to be meticulously crossed off in a timely fashion. Every minute she prolonged the journey, the more time she spent with Sirius Black, the more she began to question everything she’d known so fully just days ago.

But, the way Sirius looked at her with that wide, wolfish smile and sparkling, excitement-filled eyes tugged at her heart strings and Hermione found herself unable to deny him anything. 

Hermione fought a smile as she kicked her leg over the motorbike; snuggling herself up to Sirius, she wrapped her arms around his middle. “Alright, but we can’t be long and we have to get to Dublin by nightfall.”

The bike roared to life beneath them and they took off down the winding road, away from the inn. Though the sun beat down mercilessly, a cool breeze broke the heat as it whipped Hermione’s riotous curls around her shoulders. She found herself taking in more of the sights this time, rather than tempering her anxiety by burying her face into Sirius’ leather jacket.

“You’re not so uptight today,” he called back to her over the roar of the wind, turning his chin over his shoulder and grinning.

“You’re not so insufferable today,” she shouted back, laughter filling her words as Sirius hit the accelerator and zoomed through the rolling green fields.

Gripping him tighter around the waist—because she was  _ still _ sensible, even if she was less nervous—Hermione watched the country blur past her. She wondered when, exactly, his hand had found hers over his hard abdomen, and how he’d managed to tangle their fingers together without her knowing. Despite knowing she should move away from his touch, Hermione squeezed his hand and hid a cheeky smile at his back.

They traveled for hours, neither removing their hands. She’d never admit it to him, but Sirius could ride the hell out of a motorbike. It hadn’t taken her long to feel entirely at ease with him, and somewhere along the way she even began to find it relatively relaxing as she rested her chin on his shoulder and watched the world fly by.

When the motorcycle began to slow, a pang of regret struck her low in the stomach. She had no idea where he was taking her, but that they’d reached their destination meant that Dublin was closer still, and thus her future with Cormac began to feel inescapable. For the first time Hermione considered that, perhaps, a future with Cormac wasn’t exactly what she wanted. A thought that seeped into her bones and frightened her down to her very core. If she wasn’t Hermione Granger with Cormac McLaggen, then just who the hell was she?

Finally, they stopped. For miles ahead of them, cliffs overlooked the blue sea below. Waves crashed to shore and the wind blew salty-scented air around them. Hermione carefully stepped off the motorcycle and unclipped her helmet as Sirius cut the engine and hit the kickstand.

“Welcome to Malin Beg.” Holding his leather-clad arms out, he spun in a half circle with a proud smile on his face. “A hidden treasure, to be sure. Are you a good climber?”

“A good… climber?” Hermione peered around the area, not finding anything around them higher than where they stood. “Sirius, we’re at the top of the cliffs.”

“And we’re going to travel down them,” he said as if it were painfully obvious. “If we travel down, we must travel up, yeah? It’s nearly two hundred steps.”

Hermione balked, jaw falling open and blinking at him with wide eyes. “Two hundred—are you mad?”

“It’s been noted that on occasion, I may be quite mad, yes.” As if that were an answer at all, Sirius reached out for her hand and twined their fingers together. “I won’t let you fall. It’s quite easy once you get the hang of it.”

On her list of things to do in Ireland, falling to her death hadn’t been anywhere close to the top. With shaking hands, she gripped him tighter and allowed him to lead her to the edge of the cliffs. Her stomach jumped into her throat along with her rapidly beating heart. Hermione’s fear of heights—or rather, the fear of  _ falling _ —overtook all of her sensibilities as she molded herself to Sirius’ side and refused to give him space.

“I’m going to murder you if you let me fall.”

Winding an arm around her shoulder and tucking her closer, Sirius chuckled against her curls. “I’ve been climbing up and down these stairs for years, love. You’re in safe hands.”

They descended the stairs side by side without saying a word. The sound of the ocean, the birds overhead, and their quickened breathing were the only noises to break the otherwise silent trek. It was beautiful, though: the sun falling slowly in the sky, dusk kissing the ocean and contrasting against the white sandy beach at the end of the stairs. Hermione had never seen anything quite like it. The whole area was secluded along the cliffs; the half-moon shaped beach had no other tourists. It felt as though they were the only two people on the planet.

Which was highly dangerous, considering Hermione still hadn’t let go of Sirius’ hand.

“You come here often?” she asked, disentangling herself from him.

“When I arrived in Ireland, I walked for days trying to find my way home.” Sirius led her forward, closer to the water’s sheen over the sand. “I came here to Malin Beg by accident, and I think it’s the first time I felt like Ireland could be home if I tried hard enough.”

She watched him carefully, the way his hands rested on his low slung jeans, the steady rise and fall of his chest, and even now as he bared his soul to her there was a hint of a smile nestled along his stubbled jaw. He was Sirius Black as she’d never seen him before, and much to her consternation, he was an utterly bewitching sight.

Moving to stand closer to him, brushing her arm against his, Hermione took in a deep breath of the sea air and let it out in a calming exhale. “How did you come to Ireland then? You haven’t said.”

Sirius abruptly sat down, obviously caring very little for the sand he’d collect on his clothes. Lifting his chin and squinting his eyes against the sunlight, he beckoned her to follow suit. Though the sun was falling fast, Hermione couldn’t bring herself to rush him away from this—a thing that so clearly brought him peace. So she sat beside him and pressed her body close to his.

“A lot of things are a blur to me,” he admitted quietly, closing his eyes as if to recall it. “I remember taking my vow with the Order of the Phoenix. I remember years of war. I remember—”

His voice cracked.

Grabbing his hand, Hermione placed it in her lap and ran her thumb over his palm. She didn’t say a word.

“I remember James and Lily… their cottage in ruins. And Peter— _ fuck _ , that little bastard—what he did to them, to all of us.” Anger seeped into his words, his hand curling into a fist in her lap. “There was an explosion, and Pete was  _ smiling _ , actually bloody smiling as if he’d done something  _ good _ . And then—”

He gestured around, allowing Hermione to come to her own conclusions. It still left far more questions than it answered, but she didn’t want to press him while the emotions flitted across his face so plainly. Instead, she held his hand tighter and leaned against him. Allowing him time to process what he’d said, because she could imagine that he hadn’t been able to speak the memories out loud with anyone else since the mid-nineties.

The sun had nearly set when she finally broke their silence. “So you arrived here in eighty-one?”

“That’s the buggering mess, isn’t it?” Canting his chin to the side, he caught her gaze. “When I arrived here, it was ninety-six. I no longer had my magic. A young lad alone in a strange country with no form of identification except the ‘wanted’ posters slung over the UK? I was better off dead than turning up in old Blighty. Fifteen years had passed in the blink of an eye.”

“But that’s impossible,” she whispered, dread creeping up her spine and pooling in her chest. Nineteen ninety-six was the year Sirius had died in the Department of Mysteries; she’d never forget that day, would never forget the sorrow that filled Harry for years to follow. If it was true, then  _ this _ Sirius had never known the horrors of Azkaban, had never known Harry, either. “You don’t have a Time-Turner or, I don’t know, a glitchy Portkey?”

She knew the answer; she’d checked the cupboard at his inn quite thoroughly.

He barked a laugh and scratched at his chin with his free hand. “If I had a Time-Turner, I’d have used it to go back and kill the sorry son of a bitch who killed my best mate.”

Silence fell upon them again as the stars began shining high in the sky. In all the time they’d sat on the beach, just enjoying one another’s company, not one single soul had interrupted them. Hermione knew why Sirius liked it there; the tranquility was something she’d never been able to find anywhere else. Almost as if he’d found an alternate dimension where no one else existed, and for the first time in her life, Hermione was happy to have no one else around.

Removing his hand from her lap, Sirius shucked his leather jacket off and wrapped it around Hermione’s shoulders. She hadn’t realized she was cold until the warmth from his body heat enveloped her. He leaned back on his hands in the sand, the edge of his palm pressed slightly into the curve of her arse.

“The only thing I miss from then are my mates,” he admitted softly, eyes searching the sea for something Hermione couldn’t see. “Everything else was shit.”

Truth was, Hermione knew precisely what he was missing, what he felt so displaced from by moving through time. Harry wouldn’t know him, the war had waged on without him, and any chance of rekindling his friendships were snuffed out by the tragedy of war. The saddest part was Sirius didn’t realize everything he’d miss by suffering through Azkaban. Harry, watching him grow up, reuniting with Remus, restoring his own family name. Without the horrors of his life flashing before him for twelve years in prison, would Sirius Black care so deeply for the things he hadn’t known he missed out on? Tears sprang to her eyes, as for the first time Hermione realized the truly different person  _ this _ Sirius was to the one she’d known for so many years.

“Do you ever wonder what you’ve missed for the fifteen years you’ve skipped?”

“What, Azkaban?” A dark chuckle filled the space of several beats before he actually answered. Hermione wondered how he knew about that particular facet of the life he never lived. Before she could ask, he carried on. “Look, I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve felt as if something’s missing from my life—like there’s a whole world out there for me and I can’t see it or be part of it. But—” Sirius shook his head and fell silent again, not offering any further insight.

She couldn’t imagine what he felt, not even by the slight tells of his body; the way he moved closer to her, the way he breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth in familiar rhythms that she’d learned to stave off anxiety, or how his tone of voice had taken a raspier edge, as if he were afraid to speak anything into existence.

Steeling herself with a deep breath, Hermione cast her eyes to the sky and caught a bright, twinkling star she’d learned in Astronomy class. Dragging her hand up, she pointed at it and nudged Sirius’ shoulder with hers.

“Sirius, the Dog Star,” she whispered, wetting her lips as she offered him a small smile. “Greek for ‘searing, or scorching’. Quite like you, isn’t it? Brilliant.”

His gaze moved slowly from the velvety sky to hers, lips twitching at the corners. “You chatting me up now?”

Utterly caught off guard, Hermione’s mouth hung open and she snorted. “That’s not at all—I was trying to be kind! This is just so like you, taking something entirely innocent and—and _twisting_ _it_ into something—something _filthy_.”

“Oh, I haven’t even gotten to ‘filthy’ yet, girl.” Sirius’ grin was positively feral, sending familiar sparks zipping up and down her spine. So surprised by the magic she felt pooling in her veins, Hermione gasped. “Fan of dirty talk, eh?”

Hermione patted down her body, knowing that she didn’t have her wand close by and swore under her breath. “My magic. I felt—it’s here, I feel it.” Resting her palm over her pounding heart, she tried to calm the racing rhythm of it. “I need my wand. I think my magic is back.”

Something that looked like disappointment flickered through Sirius’ stare. “Haven’t you mastered wandless magic yet?”

He waved his hand through the air and the deafening silence that followed crashed over her. A blur of seafoam green mist followed the movement of his hand and sparkled until it melted away into nothing.

“What the fuck!” Sirius jumped from the sand and Hermione followed suit, wiping her hands over her bum to jostle the sand free. “Did you—did you  _ see _ that? I—” He scrunched his eyes and waved his hand again; the same magic appeared and faded away just as before.

“Sirius! Is that… accidental magic?” Hermione mimicked his gesture with her hand, and a wave of strawberry-colored magic wafted from her palm. “Merlin, I’ve never—why now? What’s happening?”

She whipped her head around, looking for something—anything—to explain the sudden appearance of their magic, but the beach was just as desolate as it had been when they arrived. No one at the top of the cliffs that she could see, and no merfolk in the sea as far as her eyes could travel.

They each tried the wandless, nonverbal magic again, but neither produced anything. Hermione shook her hand as if it were a spray canister of paint and tried again.

“I don’t feel it anymore,” she whispered on the verge of tears. It had been there, but quickly gone again, leaving her feeling depleted and sad for having lost it again. “Do you feel any different?”

“I felt something here.” Placing his hand over his heart, Sirius tapped his fingers against his sternum twice. “It’s gone now.”

Exhaling deeply, Hermione chewed on her lip and held her emotions at bay. Her eyes stung as if salt from the sea had gotten in them. “What was that? Why now?”

Sirius turned to face her, his shaggy hair hanging in ringlets over his shoulder. His dark eyes glittered in the moonlight, like pools of the sea reflecting back at her as Hermione lifted her watering eyes to him. “What did you feel just before you felt your magic? Your emotions.”

“Well, I was annoyed with you, obviously,” she laughed, wringing her hands together between them. “And then you were an even bigger prat about it, so I suppose I was just annoyed.”

“The blush on your cheeks said otherwise.” His gravelly voice sent chills through her again as Sirius stepped into her space, towering above her. “Maybe your magic came back because you were turned on, love.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, resting her hands on her hips as she prepared to verbally lash him. “Oh right,  _ of course _ that’s what it was. And what, you were having such fun at my expense that your magic came back for your sheer mischief?”

The breath of his laugh fluttered against her cheek. Sirius reached his hand out and slid his palm against her jaw, resting his thumb on her cheekbone. “Riling you up makes me randy. Must be the animal in me.”

Buzzing filled her ears; she made him randy?  _ She _ turned  _ Sirius Black _ on? Hermione opened and closed her mouth several times, but couldn’t think with the heat of his hand resting on her cheek and the soft pad of his thumb caressing just below her eye. He was closer still, head turned down and eyes level with hers.

“I don’t ever want to steal another kiss from you,” he whispered, lips ghosting over hers as waves crashed upon the shore somewhere closeby. “If you’d give me permission—for  _ science _ —that’d be grand.”

For science. Right. Logic, research. Made perfect sense in her cloudy, heady mind. “Oh—okay.” She swallowed hard around a dry patch in her throat and stole one last, greedy breath.

Sirius claimed her lips, his hold on her cheek tightening and tilting her head to the side as he ran his tongue against the seam of her lips. She opened up to him without realizing and sighed into the kiss as flickers of warmth started at her toes and slowly climbed through her body until they reached her hands. It felt like fire and ice coalescing together, dancing along every nerve. As his tongue caressed hers, demanding more, Hermione was flooded with what felt like pure, unfettered magic—like the first time she’d held a wand, or cast her first spell.

She lifted her hands and wrapped her fingers around Sirius’ wrists, holding him still as she pulled her face back. It took her a moment to open her eyes, not wanting the sensation to leave but desperate to look into his eyes and see what shined back at her.

His voice was hushed and filled with wonder, “Do you feel—”

“Shh.”

Hermione stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his once again, but this time there was no sweet hesitation, no careful testing of the waters. She took what she wanted from him, pouring her entire soul into him as she slipped her tongue against his and moaned while his hands wound into the roots of her hair.

Kissing Cormac never felt like this. Magic never sizzled just beneath her fingertips as they glided over his hard abdominal muscles, not the way it happened as her palms found purchase on Sirius’ torso. He never moaned like  _ that _ against her lips, never used her hair as leverage to force her head to move, never snagged his teeth on her tongue. Sirius’ touch was brand new, and the overwhelming surge of her magic was unlike anything she’d ever felt before, too.

Kissing Sirius Black was like falling into an event horizon. She knew if she didn’t push herself away, it would burn her up, send her spiraling. 

But, time had stopped. 

Every movement happened in slow motion; Hermione found herself lowered to the sand, frizzy curls splayed around her head, with Sirius hovering over her. He hadn’t stopped kissing her, not until she tugged his shirt over his head and tossed it away. It gave her a moment—just a hint of time—to breathe and to think.

Her hand moved to his bare chest, caressing an inky wolf as it prowled over his pectorals in the enchanted moon that passed through its natural phases across his chest. “Sirius, do you  _ feel _ this?”

“Don’t scare it away,” he whispered, sliding his lips against hers and effectively ending their conversation in one fell swoop.

He was dizzying, the pace he set against her mouth, forcing her to breathe so deeply she swore it echoed off the surrounding cliffs. Even the crashing waves couldn’t drown out the noises she made as his fingers slipped her trouser buttons free and delved beneath the elastic band of her knickers.

The world crashed down around her as the pad of his finger ghosted over her mons. Pushing Sirius up by the shoulders, Hermione tried to steady her rapidly firing heart and swallowed thickly.

“Sirius, I think—”

Pausing, he lifted his head and exhaled deeply. “I’ll stop if you want me to.” The gravelly timbre of his voice shot straight to her core. “But please for the love of Merlin tell me now.”

Hermione’s gaze flitted over his face, taking in the strain behind his eyes. Sinking her teeth into the swollen flesh of her lip, she wondered briefly if she’d ever be able to forgive herself if she didn’t tell Sirius to stop. A memory burst forth—Cormac with his tanned arm slung round the shoulder of a petite, adoring brunette. Sirius saying, “He’s one hundred percent fucking her,” rattling off in her ear, the way he sauntered from the camera with her in tow. 

Sadness swooped in her belly. “I don’t know what I want.”

It was the first time in her life she’d ever felt this way. Uncertain, confused, adrift. She’d never truly questioned her plan or the steps to attain her goals. Never once had she questioned Cormac and his place in her life. But all of that was before Sirius. Before she knew what it felt like to have magic thrumming so hard in her veins it seemed as though she could launch herself to the moon with the sheer power of it.

Lifting a hand to his cheek, her thumb swept along his stubble. “Would you hate me if I said we have to stop?”

A sardonic chuckle loosed itself from his lungs before Sirius rolled himself off of her and onto his back beside her. Hands swiping down his face, he sighed. “No. In fact, I think I find you even more attractive now.”

A breathy laugh escaped her lips, and Hermione turned on her side to face him. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry to have led you on like that.”

“Wasn’t for naught, though.” Sirius swiped his hand through the air above them, leaving a trail of sparkling green magic in its wake. “I’d like to have a go with my wand. See if you’re the key to bringing my magic back.”

Another layer added to the mess she’d made: if kissing Sirius sparked her magic back to life, would she lose it again when she reached Dublin… and was she so willing to let it go this easily?

Whatever the case, her plans always seemed to fall through when Sirius Black was around.


	7. A Good Man

After exhausting their limited magic, which hadn’t been anything more than a few more streaks of color through the darkness, Sirius and Hermione laid on the beach and stared up at the stars as they crawled along the velvety sky. She wasn’t keen to move her head from his shoulder, so she just laid there listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“You spent years here in Ireland whilst Voldemort rose to power again,” she whispered long after they’d settled into heavy silence. “You knew how bad it would get, how bad it was. Why didn’t you come back to help the Order?”

Her heart fluttered, racing as he tensed beside her. “There are a lot of reasons. I wanted to at first. While Ireland felt like home, I kept getting the news—strange things happening in London, odd sightings, damage to the city. I thought about coming back, joining up again. But then…”

Hermione lifted her head, watching the battle cast a shadow in his eyes. “You could have come back.” She knew how much that would have meant to Harry, especially after the events in the Death Chamber. Sirius’ loss was felt heavily through the Order; Remus had said it was like losing James all over again.

He shook his head, closing his eyes and swallowing hard. “I had a bag packed. Had arranged a Portkey with a local dealer. And then a gent by the name of Declan Macmillan found me at the inn. Didn’t know him, but he knew me—said I reminded him of a fella who’d broken out of Azkaban.”

Hermione tensed, not daring to breathe. Her fingers curled into his shirt, and if he thought it was weird, Sirius said nothing about her sudden apprehension.

“Became a good friend of mine, actually. Old Declan.” The fondness was evident in his voice as he carried on. “Over time I discovered the person I reminded him of was me, but different. Responsible for the deaths of his best mates, destroying the Statute of Secrecy, breaking out of Azkaban to attempt murder of a young boy, years on the run and aiding You-Know-Who.”

Her heart shattered. “What about after? What about—”

“We stopped talking about it after a while,” he said, effectively ending her questioning with a pointed tone. “Declan would get upset, see. His nephew was in the thick of it; Gryffiindor. Refused to go back, drowned his sorrows in my pub. He stayed, and so I thought it best that I did as well. No sense in giving the Ministry another reason to give me the old Kiss.”

A humorless laugh left him, and the silence that followed was deafening. Hermione sat up, twisting her body to look down at Sirius, whose eyes were closed and lips were pressed in a strict line.

“You don’t have all the information,” she said, wincing as her tone reminded her of one she’d used all those years ago in the thick of research at Hogwarts. “You don’t know all the good Sirius Black has done for those around him.”

“Good doesn’t absolve bad,” he muttered, not bothering to grace her with eye contact. So futile, so sure of his iniquity.

“Everyone has both good and bad in them.” One of his eyes popped open and watched her closely. Hermione’s lips twitched. “The world isn’t split into good people and Death Eaters.”

Sirius frowned, closing his eyes again. “That sounds like something Moony would say.”

“Actually, it’s something the Sirius Black I knew once said.”

That had an instant effect. He rose from the sand like a vampire from a coffin, tense and severe with hard, glowering eyes. “You knew me then? More’s the pity for you.”

Sirius turned from her and walked away, shoulders hunched as he skirted the wet sand by the water. Hermione scrambled to stand and chased after him, not stopping until she was in step at his side.

“I’m not sorry I knew that man,” she whispered, stuffing her hands into the pockets of the leather jacket. “He was brave and selfless and saved my life just as much as I saved his.”

Grumbling, Sirius refused to acknowledge her presence and kept his eyes forward as they carried on along the beach. Hermione dug her heels into the sand and grabbed his arm, squeezing just enough to hold him in place. He paused, but kept eye contact with the dawning horizon rather than meeting her steeled gaze.

“In my fifth year, Sirius Black stopped a Death Eater from killing me.” He snorted, but she gripped his arm tighter. “I was going to die—Dolohov called me ‘Mudblood’ and raised his wand. I was hit by a Necrosis spell and was left to whatever further torture he’d perform. But then you showed up.” Taking a deep breath, Hermione slowed her rapid heartbeat. “It’s because of  _ you _ that I got away with only a scar.”

“Hardly heroic.” Eyes rolling to the heavens, Sirius scoffed. “Saving a teenage girl from a vile wizard hardly qualifies me as a good man. Unless that’s the company you keep these days: just the sods who aren’t quite evil enough to be the next Dark Lord.”

“Do you really think that I’d agree to trek across an entire country with a man whose morality I question?” Hermione mocked his scoff and dropped her hand from his arm as she narrowed her eyes. “You might not know who I am, but allow me to introduce myself: Hermione Granger, Brightest Witch of her Age, Muggleborn, and one-third of the Golden Trio whose actions during the war led to the death of Lord Voldemort.” She stuck out her hand, as if to shake his. “I don’t suffer fools and I don’t waste my time on men who don’t deserve forgiveness.”

The wings of his brows rose as if he were surprised by her boldness. Amusement danced behind his darkened eyes as he took her hand and gave it a strong shake. Sirius’ charm peeked through an easy smirk. “You’re awfully full of yourself, aren’t ya love?”

“You’re utterly insufferable,” she mumbled, crossing her arms over her chest. “I was going to say that I’d like the chance to get to know  _ this _ Sirius Black better, but…”

While her face pinched, his split into a wide grin. “But you can’t keep your hands off him long enough to get to know him.”

“That’s not at all—”

He stepped into her space. “You’ve got your sexy quidditch star… you don’t need to settle with a shaggy mutt like me.”

“You’re a good man, Sirius Black. I truly believe that.”

Gaze moving over her shoulder to the rolling sea, his tone reflected a long, arduous battle she knew he’d always warred within himself. “Being a good man doesn’t forgive the horrible things I’m responsible for.”

“Nor should your bad decisions condemn you for life.” She hesitated for a beat, combatting her need to say more over knowing how much damage she could do by revealing too much. As his mouth opened—likely to refute what she’d said because he was a self-deprecating prat—Hermione rushed to interrupt him. “You’re innocent. I personally fought to prove you’re innocent. Against time and werewolves and—and  _ Snape _ .”

“Snivellus,” he sniffed, rolling his eyes and raking a hand through his hair. When his gaze finally met hers again, she found a rueful gleam staring back at her. “You don’t give up, do you?”

A tiny smile toyed with the corner of her lips as she shook her head. “Not when I’m right.” She placed a hand on his arm and lowered her voice. “I’d fight for you again if I had to.”

Several moments passed in silence until Sirius sighed and gently pulled his arm from her grasp. “Let’s get you to Dublin, love. I think it’s time for you to be with your fella.”

It took all of her strength to simply bite her cheek and not respond. Instead, Hermione huffed as she sped up the hundreds of stairs after Sirius. As they climbed in silence, she mulled over his words and argued with herself over the definition of cheating, over whether two wrongs made a right, whether she’d done the wrong thing by trekking across Ireland with an admittedly handsome, scruffy man with an affinity for flirting. Any time she came close to a solid conclusion—rationalizing the points in her favor—guilt seeped in. She was so lost in thought that she barely realized they’d made it back to the motorcycle.

Sirius handed her the helmet without a word and left her to buckle the strap herself. When she wrapped her hands around his middle, his gut clenched under her palms and they were off on the open road. Only the wind breezing by them broke the silence.

* * *

Finding the grounds for the Quidditch World Cup was relatively easy. The edges of the plot shimmered in the afternoon sun and hundreds of witches and wizards strolled along an old dirt-covered road with rucksacks strapped to their backs. She watched as they turned into an open field and then disappeared as their bodies crossed the magical threshold.

Poking Sirius to capture his attention, Hermione spoke only as loud as she needed for him to hear. “It’s there. In that field.”

She felt, rather than heard, his grumbled response. His hard abdomen vibrated beneath her fingers as he pulled off into a large lot lined with various other vehicles. Sirius parked the bike and kicked the stand into place.

The gravity of her situation crashed over her; she’d have to say goodbye to Sirius, she’d have to propose to Cormac, she’d have to compartmentalize another experience of her life to fit into the tidy expectations society had for a Minister of Magic. While the idea had once brought her contentment, now she felt… sad, letting so many pieces of herself go in order to make the difference she wanted to make in the world.

“So, I guess this is it then.” Stepping off the bike, Sirius moved to the storage compartment and pulled her luggage from within. “Good luck with—”

“Actually.” Hermione moved closer to him, wrapping her hand around his bicep. Even through the leather she could feel it flex as Sirius dropped his gaze to hers. She searched his eyes for a moment, annoyed he’d given nothing away about how he felt. Steeling herself with a deep breath, she lowered her voice as if someone would overhear. “I need to travel into the city—I have a list of things, and I can’t Apparate or drive, and I wonder if maybe you’d be, er… willing to—”

His lips bent in a smirk. “Chauffeur?”

Biting into her lip, Hermione blinked back her reservations about prolonging their journey and nodded. “If you wouldn’t mind. I’ll even get you into the World Cup, if you like. We can share a tent for the night since the players aren’t allowed to have visitors before the match.”

“Awfully convenient,” he snorted, brows rising as if to make a point.

“In the nineteenth century, a player from an opposing team snuck into the player camp and  _ Imperiused _ the entire team.”

Barking a laugh and finally dropping his eye contact, Sirius shook his head. “You don’t strike me as a Quidditch enthusiast. How do you even know about that?”

Hermione stuck her nose in the air, sniffing. “I happen to enjoy research.”

“You were looking for a reason not to visit your fella before his matches.”

“I want to make sure that I’m following all the rules. As the future Minister of Magic—”

“Oh, love.” His shaggy hair fell into his face as his shoulders shook from laughter. “Alright, if you need my help, I’m happy to oblige. But tonight, we drink. No one throws a proper pre-Cup party like the Irish.”

“I’m not much of a drinker,” she admitted, a blush creeping onto her cheeks. It had been years since she’d had more than a glass or two of wine. “It’s unbecoming.”   


“Right, the future Minister also can’t be a lush.” He bopped her on the nose, so condescending in tone, and then unsnapped the buckle under her chin. Eyes positively sparkling, he smirked. “No drinks, no deal.”

Drinks was a terrible idea, and not only for her reputation. But the way he charmed her so easily with a wide smile and casual wink, Hermione found herself agreeing before her brain had caught up enough to reason.

Their time in the city shops was short lived. She couldn’t find a ring she liked enough to present to Cormac, there were no dresses that struck her fancy enough to propose in, and all of her grand, cheesy ideas for asking Cormac to marry her seemed so silly now that she was actually closer to the day. It was Leap Day tomorrow, and all her plans had gone to pot.

They were enjoying a lazy walk amongst Muggles on a main street when Hermione’s world was flipped on its axis.

“After that football tourney,” a feminine voice said as she approached, prompting Hermione to stop and listen, wondering if maybe she’d found another witch in the midst of Dublin. “Said he’d meet up with us after they win.”

Something prickled the back of her neck, proverbial hackles raised as she realized why the woman looked familiar. Sirius carried on walking as if he hadn’t noticed her sudden halt.

“He did not!” her friend said, followed by a playful slap to the other girl’s arm. “Oh my God, did he really?”

Smugly, the first girl flicked her long, brown hair over her shoulder and nodded. “He did, and if last night is any clue, I’ll be sore tomorrow.”

“Oh, you’re so bad!” Her friend laughed and squeezed in close as they moved past Hermione with big, ridiculously pretty smiles. “Fit football player like that, though, he’ll probably toss you around the bedroom like a ragdoll.”

“Believe me,” the first girl said, “he already has.”

They rounded a corner before Hermione could hear the friend’s reply, but she hardly felt as though she needed to. That familiar brunette brought a fresh wave of memories: watching Cormac on the nightly news with his arm wrapped around her and his hand splayed on her hip. Sirius’ words “he’s one hundred percent fucking her” reverberated through her mind.

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Something heavy and painful sat in her stomach as she pressed herself back against the nearest wall between shop doors. Sweaty palm held tight against her sternum, Hermione drew in a ragged breath and tried to force away the sudden tears springing to her eyes.

“Hermione?”

Sirius’ voice cut through the fog that had settled over her mind. Lifting her hand to swipe the tears that streaked her face, Hermione sniffed and cleared her throat and breathed out a harsh breath as she tried to rein in her emotions. He jogged to her with a massive grin on his stubbly face.

“There you are,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “Merlin, you’re slow. Try to keep up—it would be a poor show if I lost you on the very last day of our journey.”

Swallowing a thick, wet lump in her throat, Hermione made a noise of agreement and forced a tight smile on her face. “Sorry, got distracted by—” she gestured vaguely to the shop at her side.

“Basic Instincts?” Sirius barked a laugh and eyed her speculatively. “Distracted by a sex shop?”

Hermione’s head whipped to the side. There in big letters was  _ Basic Instincts: Mask & Fetish Store _ . A flush spread from her chest to her cheeks in record time. Trying to blink away her embarrassment, she turned back to Sirius and stammered through a torrent of warring emotions.

He stopped her with a throaty chuckle and grabbed her hand, pulling her off in the direction of his motorbike. “No worries, love. What you and your fella get up to in the comfort of your own home is—”

“That’s not—”

Sirius snorted as he dragged her along. “Oh, don’t be embarrassed. Everyone has a kinky side.”

Yanking her hand away, Hermione stomped ahead of Sirius. “Just take me back to camp, Sirius.”

“Hey, hey!” He caught up to her and grabbed her hand, softer this time. “What’s wrong? We were having a lovely day and now you’re all...vexed.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, continuing on as if the warmth of his touch wasn’t spreading through her veins and destroying the chill left behind by those two girls. “Things just aren’t going according to plan, okay? I have no idea what I’m going to do.”

“You’ll figure it out, love.” Sirius caressed her knuckles with the pad of his thumb. “Something tells me you always do.”

* * *

As Sirius and Hermione journeyed along the dirt-covered road leading to the magical entrance of the grounds, it became more apparent than ever that something about her life had felt  _ off _ longer than she cared to admit. Sirius made his little jokes as they walked, but Hermione could only entertain him with forced laughter and weak comebacks.

There was also the nagging feeling that, perhaps, they hadn’t been talking about Cormac at all. Was it really fair of her to believe the worst so easily when he’d never done anything to break her trust before? Or was she just making excuses for her own behavior since meeting Sirius in Dingle?

Hermione didn’t know, and it was driving her spare thinking about it in circles the whole way back to the campground.

Her mood only shifted as they stepped through the magical barrier between the Muggle and Wizarding worlds. Hundreds and hundreds of magical folk gathered in a sea of bright, relentless colors and magic. Booths popped up supporting both teams, children ran past with WizBangs and magical kites, excitedly knocking into people as they played. Tents of various sizes, shapes, and colors dotted the grounds. The scent of food—meats and pies and potatoes—wafted through the air as Sirius and Hermione drifted further into the campsite.

“Lucky we’ve got a tent,” Sirius mumbled as they strolled along a lot with vacant spaces. “I don’t fancy sleeping uncovered with this lot partying into the night.”

“About the tent.” Hermione dug her teeth into her lip and pulled her luggage next to her leg. “It’s a bit… small. I thought it would be only me.”

“A likely story.” Holding his hand out for the various things Hermione was pulling from her bag, Sirius began constructing the tent. “Your master plan is becoming clearer. You  _ like _ sharing a bed with me.”

Instead of refuting him, Hermione silently helped put the tent together. Luckily, she’d gone camping with her parents several times in the Forest of Dean, not to mention the final few months of the war and the camping they’d done then. Pitching a tent without magic was no sweat off her back. They worked in tandem with one another, neither speaking until it was complete.

By feigning misplacing her wand—and Sirius’ startlingly perfect depiction of a drunkard with no sense about him at all—Hermione was able to ask a passerby to incant the spell to give their tent the magical signature it needed to expand on the inside.

At least she’d have a loo.

Night fell suddenly over the campground, and the volume of celebrations grew to a pitch that threatened Hermione with a migraine. It didn’t take long for Sirius to procure a bottle of what smelled like aged Firewhisky without a label to say precisely the brand or alcohol content. She made him sip first, just in case, and he merely winked at her before chugging down several gulps.

“Alright, girl.” He grinned as he passed her the large, amber bottle. “Show us what you can do.”

Hermione sniffed the bottle, lips tugging down as its potent stench burned her nose. With watering eyes, she brought it to her mouth and sipped just a tiny bit. Sirius, however, wasn’t having it. His hand found the bottom of the bottle and tipped it up.

“Go on— _ drink _ .”

Eyes watering, throat on fire, Hermione took a long, deep pull and swallowed. “Ugh, that’s  _ foul _ !”

Sirius laughed and swiped the bottle back. “You get used to it. C’mon, let’s wander about. See if we can find some mischief to get into.”

He appeared in his element, surrounded by magic. The way that Sirius walked through a crowd—the confidence, the utter charm rolling off him—blew Hermione away. While Hermione skirted by people and apologized for knocking shoulders, Sirius flashed a wide grin and held his liquor aloft with a cheerful greeting. It was like he’d never left the Wizarding world at all.

Hermione watched as a man with green and white face paint pointed at Sirius.

“Blimey, isn’t that—”

Cursing under her breath, she shoved Sirius into the closest space between tents, ignoring the “oi!” he hissed at her until they were away from the big crowd.

“Bloody hell, girl. What’re you up to?” Sirius laughed, tripping over his own feet and using Hermione’s shoulder to steady himself. “Didn’t realize you had a voyeurism kink.”

“You’re disgusting,” she sighed as she tugged her shoulder away. “I had to get you out of there. Someone recognized you.”

Shrugging, Sirius took a long pull from his bottle. “Bound to happen sooner or later, isn’t it? Reckon I have a long stint in Azkaban when the Ministry realizes I’m alive.”

Hermione yanked the liquor from him. “Sirius Black was cleared of all charges before—” He leaned into her, but she noticed her mistake before the words ‘he died’ left her lips, and took a drink rather than admit it out loud.

“Whoa, slow down.” Chuckling, Sirius pulled the bottle from her clenched fingers. “We’ll stick to the smaller crowds then, shall we? Wouldn’t want you tits up before you propose to your fella.”

An actual growl tore itself from her throat and her eyes narrowed despite the blasted cheerful grin on his face. “You are such a pain in the arse, Sirius Black.”

Exaggerating a low bow, when he lifted his head, Sirius winked. “All part of the charm, love. Oh, what’ve we got over here?”

His hand found hers, wrapping their fingers together as he dragged her so far through the line of tents, they came out the other side. A bonfire burned bright in the middle of the dirt-covered path with at least a dozen witches and wizards gathered around drinking. Off to the side, a band played strange instruments Hermione had never seen before, but it was a melody she knew well—an old, Irish melody that filled the space around them as a handful of people danced.

“Looks like this lot knows how to have a good time,” Sirius said, ushering her closer to the fire. “What d’you say, fancy a dance?”

Eyes flickering around the fire, at the warmth and friendship she saw surrounding it, Hermione swallowed around a tight knot. Something strange panged in her chest. Longing, or perhaps sadness that she’d never truly searched for fun like this. She’d always overlooked it in favor of climbing the ladder of her career path—choosing long nights in the office over long nights in the pub. It had cost her all but Cormac, whose job was just as demanding, required just as much of a sacrifice. But then… she gnawed on her lip. Cormac still enjoyed the finer things in life, didn’t he? Still found time to walk the streets of Dublin and encourage his fans with charming smiles and affectionate touches, and who knew what else. He’d gone out loads of times with his team, and Hermione had stayed at her flat in Diagon working on her next legislation proposal or proofreading something for the Minister.

_ This _ is what her life could have looked like if she’d only just allowed herself a moment to enjoy it.

Sirius’ uneasy voice filtered through her mind as his fingers squeezed hers. “Er, listen, if you’d rather go back and—”

“Let’s dance.” Hauling him towards the makeshift dance floor in the dirt path, Hermione got as close to the music as they could and turned to Sirius. “Don’t step on my toes.”

As if he were challenged, Sirius performed a quick little jig with his feet and wiggled his eyebrows. “Pureblood, remember? I was raised to dance.”

“This is a bit different. Less refined, more—”

She didn’t get a chance to explain precisely how the Irish danced to their music. Sirius held her close and pushed her away, his feet moving in time with the melody as it floated around and through them. Hermione laughed as he led her through a ridiculous series of hops, and she’d never felt so at ease in her entire life. For the first time in as long as she could remember, breathing came easily, laughter spilled from her lips without a moment’s hesitation, and her shoulders—always knotted and hard like granite—relaxed as they moved together to the band’s upbeat rhythm. The dark cloud that had followed her all afternoon dissipated, leaving breathless happiness in its wake.

With her body flush against Sirius, Hermione stared up at him and felt a rush of magic as their eyes met. He reached forward and pushed a chunk of her hair away from her forehead, corners of his eyes crinkling under the weight of his grin. “You keep doing that.”

Hermione tilted her head, a warm flutter sweeping its way through her chest. “Doing what?”

“Surprising me,” he admitted softly, trailing the pad of his finger from her forehead to her chin. For a moment, Sirius just stared at her as if trying to figure her out. “I’m not supposed to fancy a taken woman.”

Her belly swooped at his admission; for all his flirting and their stolen kisses, she hadn’t really connected that Sirius could possibly  _ fancy _ her. With a thick lump in her throat, Hermione offered him a sad smile. “I’m not supposed to fancy anyone except Cormac.”

“But you do,” he rushed out, crowding her space even more and ducking his face so that their eyes were level. “Fancy me?”

“Of course not,” she answered softly, the corner of her lip curling up in a smirk that belied her true feelings.

It earned a genuine bark of laughter from Sirius as he straightened himself up and let his hands fall to hold her hips. Hermione lifted her hands to wrap around his neck and dug her fingers into the shaggy mess of hair at the nape of his neck. Their eyes remained locked only on one another, slowly swaying to the otherwise chirpy music as if they were the only two people in the entire campground. Even as the high energy melody blazed on around them, everything about the moment was tender and languid; the circles Sirius burned into her skin with his thumb, her steady breath as she lost herself in the sea of comfort she found in his eyes.

Magic seeped into her bones, sparking along her muscles and nipping at the sensitive nerves along her body. She felt it as sure as she felt the air in her lungs, the way it clinged to her and coalesced deep in her belly. With every breath, the air around them shifted, turning various shades of purple and blue. Hermione’s chest flushed, the heat traveling like a river over her throat and cheeks. She blinked, and when her eyes opened again, the world itself had shifted.

They rose in the air as if floating on a dense cloud. The middle of the dirty little dance floor far below them as the other dancers swayed below them. A gasp tore from Hermione’s lungs, fingers tightening in Sirius’ hair and legs trembling for fear she’d fall. Sirius’ arms rounded her hips, barely room for a blade of grass between their bodies. A soft breath puffed against her cheeks and then his lips were on hers.

Slow, maddeningly slow, Sirius swept his tongue along the seam of her lips, and she opened to him without a passing thought. The air around them crackled, and still Sirius sought more, deepening the kiss and setting a passionate, needy pace. Winding her fingers into the roots of his hair, Hermione held Sirius close and scraped her blunt nails along his scalp. Swallowing the feral sound from the back of his throat, excitement throbbed between her legs.

It was over too soon. Sirius cupped her cheeks, eyes opening slowly to take her in. She wondered briefly if he could see the magic vibrating through her reflecting in her eyes. “You’ll need to stop looking at me like that if you expect me to be a gentleman when we get back to our tent.”

“And if I don’t want you to be a gentleman at all?” Hermione whispered, the words heavy and hoarse as her feet touched down on the ground.

His fingertips sparked against her skin, like little jolts of electricity. “Then I suppose we ought to get back to the tent before I make good on your voyeur kink.”

Wrapping his hand around hers, Sirius dragged her away from the crowd of people, past the raging bonfire, and through the pathways between tents.

For a moment, Hermione considered the ramifications about what she and Sirius were running off to do. But, that guilt was snuffed out, overruled by the remembrance of what she’d overheard while shopping in town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't tell you how much I appreciate your patience with my posting non-schedule for this little story. <3 There are three chapters left, all plotted, and half-written, so we've only got a little ways to go! Thank you so much for all of the support, whether you're reading, or have left kudos or comments, or have rec'd this little story around the interwebs. It means so much to me and I appreciate you all so much.
> 
> To my amazing Alphabet team (mcal, LadyKenz347, and In_Dreams), you gals are such an inspiration. <3


	8. Kyss Mik

When they arrived at the door-flap of their tent, Sirius ducked in first, holding it open for Hermione to follow. Once in the darkness of the tent, the realization of what she was about to do crashed over her. The walk here had sobered her slightly and this was no longer a rash, hormone-fueled snog. This was a conscious decision she was making to choose Sirius Black.

And yet, there was a fire kindling in her abdomen.

Hermione scrambled for her wand, relief flooding her chest as magic thrummed through her veins. With a deft flick of her wrist, the light dimmed and the fire raged hotter in her belly. While she admired the spark of life in her magic, Sirius nicked the wand from her hand and waved it through the air. A massive grin overtook his face—as if magic itself made everything right in his world. 

Sirius tossed her wand to the side. As her eyes lingered longingly on her wand, Sirius’ hard body pressed into her back. Tingles spread across her skin as if just the touch of him awoke some cosmic need inside of her. She forgot about her wand, about where they were— _ who _ they were—and reveled in the desire that sent her heart thumping wildly in her throat.

As he spun her around by her hips, Hermione came face-to-clavicle with a fully naked Sirius Black and swallowed hard before allowing her eyes to drift from his.

The tattoos covering his skin entranced her. There were far more than she'd ever realized and on nearly every inch of his tanned skin were magical and Muggle markings alike. Her eyes catalogued each of them, determined to understand the things that mattered the most to this version of Sirius Black. The imagery he’d used as self-expression was so important to him that he’d permanently marked it over his taut skin.

Lost in study, her fingers traced over the inky lines, her touch leaving gooseflesh in its wake. She slid her fingers along the hard muscles of his torso, down to the thin hairs trailing from his belly button to the apex of the deep V of his hips. He seemed unphased by the attention, but Hermione couldn’t stop the intense flames bursting like pools of lava in her cheeks. She snapped her eyes to his, fingers dropping away from his body.

Her suddenly slick hands hung useless at her sides. As he crowded her further, Hermione could make out every fleck of silver in his eyes, stomach coiling under his darkened gaze. He reached up slowly, as if he could feel the tentative anxiety creeping through her veins, and plucked her lip from the harsh bite of her teeth.

Her nerves were short-lived as Sirius’ lips claimed hers, slowly building from the sweet kiss they’d shared by the fire to something all-consuming that sent tingles cascading through her veins.

“Take off your clothes,” he whispered, and then ducked down to press his tongue along the sensitive skin below her jaw. “Let me see you.”

She’d been naked in front of several men. Fit men. Dashing, charming,  _ hot  _ men.

And it certainly wasn't that Hermione was an insecure witch; she knew she wasn't a sea hag. But as her gaze traipsed along the ridges and valleys of Sirius' body, an overwhelming panic seized her. Sea hag she was not, but perhaps she was a little too plain for such attention. Maybe she wouldn't be special at all with her clothes off. Average hips, average breasts, average… other things, as far as she knew. Now, it was all she could think as her fingers lifted her jumper overhead and revealed the simple, beige fabric covering her breasts.

As soon as the jumper left her hands, Sirius crashed into her, fingers clenching around her hips as he led her backwards until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the bed. She lowered herself gently, her breath hitching as he slowly crawled over her. The hair hanging over his shoulders tickled her cheeks as he pillowed her lips between his.

“Now’s the time,” Sirius whispered just beside her ear. “If you want to stop, for the love of fucking Merlin, tell me now.”

Hermione scooched back, letting her legs fall open on either side of his hips. Her hands found purchase on his waist, eagerly encouraging him to close the gap between them. “Don’t stop—I don’t want to stop this time. Please.”

“Thank Godric and all the Gods,” he praised with a hoarse laugh, before slanting his mouth over hers.

The rest of her clothes were gone in a truly impressive bit of wandless magic.

Then his hands were  _ everywhere _ .

Never in her experience had Hermione ever  _ felt _ so intensely. Heat followed every brush of his lips, leaving a scorching trail over her skin as he worshipped every inch of her. His teeth scraped gently over her nipple and she arched into his touch, her lower back lifting off the mattress. Remarkably, he knew every pulse point to pause at, knew the freckles she loved to have kissed, and the slow, drifting touch she'd desired for so long.

He slipped a finger against her bundle of nerves at the same moment that he swiped his tongue over her breast. A desperate and needy noise ripped from her throat, drowning the tent in the echo of her cries.

“Keep making noises like that and I’m not going to last.”

The way he slid down her body was wicked, causing sweltering heat to flush her skin. His eye contact never wavered, not even as he reached the apex of her thighs. With a single devilish wink, he lowered his mouth over her aching flesh. 

Embarrassment and pleasure coalesced inside her, sending Hermione through a tailspin of breathy pleas for more. Yanking Sirius by his shaggy hair, she forced him up to her lips and melted into a messy, passionate kiss.

Hermione was absently aware of Sirius maneuvering them into a new position but it wasn’t until he was under her, his fingers curling into the meat of her thighs, that she realized she was on full display. 

Reaching between them, she slid his tip through her folds, holding him in place as she sank down, sheathing herself on his length. Their combined moans filled the tent, her jaw slack as she allowed herself a moment to adjust to the way he filled her. 

Rolling her hips experimentally, she reveled in the sound of air being sucked sharply between his teeth. Eyes sliding shut, Hermione ran her fingers over the length of his chest until she planted her palm against his sternum for leverage. She lifted herself up and sank down slowly, enjoying every delicious moment being filled by him.

The kindling in her belly flared to a flame the faster she rocked against him. Her movements began to stutter, toes curling as her jaw fell open. 

Blessedly, Sirius took over then, his hands gripping her so hard she knew she’d have his fingerprints etched in her flesh the next day, but she didn’t care. The way he moved her body was primal, like the growl leaving his hoarse throat as Hermione clenched around him.

She’d had orgasms before, but never like this. Sparks of magic skittered within her veins, tickling the tips of her fingers as her nails dug into Sirius’ chest. Head thrown back, lips parted around incomprehensible pleas, Hermione’s body stiffened even as Sirius thrust through her orgasm to reach his own.

Sirius’ fingers slid up and down her spine, soothing the trembles that still rocked her body. After several moments, Hermione collapsed and fell into his side.

With her ear resting against Sirius’ beating heart, Hermione listened to the way his breathing slowed. She didn’t want a single noise to ruin the contented silence ensconcing them like a weighted blanket. The rise and fall of his chest gently rocked her into a peaceful rest and she yawned as she felt her eyes slip closed. She forced them open, not wanting the night to end. Falling asleep meant the night would end, and all the things she’d felt for Sirius would have to go with it. 

Possibly for the first time in her life, Hermione didn’t know what tomorrow would hold. It’d be Leap Day come dawn, and she may have just ruined her entire life plan in one fell swoop. But, while Hermione mourned that she’d have to leave this night behind her, she wasn’t entirely ready to give up on Sirius altogether.

“I hope you find a way back to England one day,” she murmured, not entirely sure the words had left her at all. “Harry would love to know you.”

Sirius was quiet for a long time after. The only proof she had that he hadn’t fallen asleep was the feel of his fingers dancing along her skin. As she concentrated on the featherlight touches, Hermione realized he was drawing runes. Softly moving over her skin, Sirius’ fingers weaved both magic and language together.

_ ‘kyss mik’ _ they spelled, followed by  _ Dagaz _ overtop the words.

_ ‘Kiss me’ _ he’d asked silently, sealing the request with  _ hope _ .

Heart fluttering, Hermione pressed a kiss to his chest and enjoyed the way his fingers curled into her skin to pull her closer.

Just before she drifted off to sleep, Sirius’ chest rumbled. “I won’t be who he expects.” He said it so quietly she barely heard him over the beat of his heart. “He deserves James in his life, not the godfather who’s made piss poor life choices.”

She wanted to argue, wanted to tell him just how wrong he was, but instead the remaining alcohol in her blood forced her into a heavy, deep sleep.

* * *

Dawn seeped through the tent’s thin fabric, hitting Hermione across her eyes. She stretched the sleep from her bones and felt Sirius at her back, his arms wound around her middle and his nose pressed into the thick curls on the back of her neck. It took her several moments to disentangle herself from his hold, and he merely grumbled and turned the other way as she scrambled to get ready for the day.

Already, nothing about the day was according to her plan. Hermione wore a simple jumper-jeans combo and boots. She could perform basic spellwork, but nothing that would help her reach Cormac—no Patronus, no Apparition. All of her strength went into withdrawing a few thin, silvery threads of memories from her mind and leaving them in a stoppered vial next to Sirius where he slept.

Creeping out of the tent, Hermione took a deep breath and silently bid him goodbye. While she’d gotten to know Sirius fairly well over the previous few days, she knew where her future was... if she and Cormac could forgive each other, that was. She left the tent and Sirius with it, but happy at least that she could leave Sirius with her memories that would prove once and for all that he’s always done the right thing. Perhaps he could finally find peace.

He deserved it.

* * *

  
  
As Hermione made her way through the stands towards her seat in the nosebleed section, Omnioculars dangling from a thread around her neck, her stomach twisted in anticipation of seeing Cormac. The cacophony of cheers grated on her nerves; it was as if every sound rubbed her raw as the crowd chanted for their teams. The further up she moved, the thicker the stench of stale beer and sweat became. If she had full use of her magic, she’d place a Bubble Head Charm on herself. Instead, she wrinkled her nose and took deep breaths through her mouth.

Cormac, dressed in shades of red and white, grinned as he zoomed from the locker rooms and around the pitch. As he flew by her, Cormac did a double take and nearly crashed into the broom in front of him. He recovered quickly, flicking a wave in her direction and blowing her a playful kiss in front of the three large, golden hoops he was protecting. What would normally bring forth a wide, pleased grin instead brought nothing more than a reminder that she’d have a hell of a time explaining to him how she’d wound up in Dublin... among other things.

It was a conversation she didn’t want to have, but utterly refused to enter into their marriage with any secrets. Hers, or his.

As the match played on and the teams blurred past her in a variety of colors, Hermione found her mind wandering to Sirius. She wondered if he’d found her memories, if he’d figured out how to view them, and if he’d one day return to England if only so that Harry would be able to know him.

She refused to acknowledge that she hoped she’d see him again. Even if it would be from a distance, even if she’d never allow herself alone in the same room with him again, Hermione hoped that he’d show up one day.

In one of the shortest victories in history, the English Seeker nabbed the Snitch in a deep dive towards the grass, sending the crowd around her in a right tizzy of shouts, dancing, and celebration. The noise was deafening—it was a wonder how the Muggles couldn’t hear them around the world. 

She pressed the Omnioculars to her eyes and found Cormac with his fist pumped in the air, floppy hair whipping on top of his head in the wind. With a massive grin, Cormac zoomed around the golden hoops shouting at the top of his lungs. Though she couldn’t hear him, the elation etched onto his face was almost contagious; Hermione couldn’t stop herself from letting loose her own supportive cheers.

As the crowd around her began to disperse and the energy lowered, the buzz of victory slowly dissipated. It left Hermione with a strange sort of emptiness and she wondered if there was ever anything in her life that made her feel how Cormac looked about winning the Quidditch World Cup.

With each step as she descended the stairs of the stands, making her way towards Cormac’s approaching broom, she found the answer was a definitive ‘no’. 

Cormac met her at the third-highest level of stairs with his hand outstretched to help her onto his broom. Still, after so many years, Hermione gnawed on her lip and considered that three staircases were far better than plummeting to her death, but Cormac seemed to know exactly what she was thinking and laughed her worries away.

“I’d never let you fall, love,” he said, quick to toss a throwaway smile at her. “You can trust me, you know.”

Icy worry squirmed its way through her stomach. Blinking away the knee-jerk response resounding in her head—no, she didn’t quite know if she could trust him anymore—Hermione exhaled sharply and steadied her shaking hands. 

A few moments on a broom was nothing in the grand scheme of things. So Hermione took his hand and slowly perched herself side-saddle on the broom behind Cormac. Fingers resting loosely against his Quidditch kit, Hermione kept her eyes closed as he descended to the ground in the middle of the pitch.

Cormac was sweaty, though he smelled of fresh air and grass, and wore a winning smile as he assisted Hermione off his broom with a familiar hold on her hand. Gripping her fingers, Cormac tossed his broom to the side and turned himself towards her. Familiar blue eyes shined down at her, alight with sparks of victory and excitement. Moments like this, where he seemed so carefree and open, reminded Hermione of the man she’d fallen in love with years ago.

It was a brutal reminder that any vestige of joy about their life together had died long ago. 

Guilt thrashed inside of her, bringing powerful tears springing to her eyes. 

What was meant to be a beautiful, spontaneous proposal was instead marred by the things they’d done to one another. They’d need to sort through the long list of horrible things Dublin had meant for them before they were ready to move on with one another.

Perhaps proposing to Cormac had always been a silly idea. Maybe they both needed more time. 

Harry was probably right; Cormac would propose when he was ready, and Hermione would say yes because it was all part of her life plan.

She didn’t have to speed it along. There was no rush on the future—she told herself, resolutely—it would come regardless if she was prepared for it. 

With the matter settled, she offered Cormac a small smile. “Congratulations on the win.”

“I’m surprised to see you here!” His brilliant smile lit up the entirety of the pitch. “I didn’t think you’d ever come to a match, and now I know you love me more than your hatred of Quidditch.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “It’s a big day for you. I didn’t want to miss it. Looks like you’ve got a big celebration ahead of you tonight,” she said, gesturing around the crowded pitch.

His team stood to the side, holding onto their brooms as they waited for Cormac to join them. He didn’t seem in a hurry, though, as he ran a hand through his perfectly coiffed hair. “Ah, yeah. Bit of celebration all around.”

Tilting her head, Hermione scrunched her brows together. “Oh? Has something happened?”

“I’m hopeful it will.” Cormac lowered himself to the ground on one knee, sunshine glinting off the light fibers of his hair. “Hermione—”

“What’re you doing?” Gasping with a hand to her mouth, Hermione’s face flushed. “Cormac?”

“Been holding onto this for luck. Guess it paid off.” He grinned and from within his kit, Cormac pulled a small black box and held it up. “Hermione Jean Granger—”

“You’re not,” she whispered, tears collecting like pools in her eyes.

Grinning, Cormac jerked his head in a nod. “I am, if you’ll let me.”

She stared down at him. Somewhere in the distance, the loud and bright flash of a camera distracted her. Hermione whipped her head around and saw hundreds of wizards and witches watching on; women excitedly clapping, men with proud smirks on their faces. The paparazzi snapping photos and taking notes with their fancy Quick Quotes Quills. When she brought her eyes back to him again, Cormac was positively beaming.

He snapped open the ring box and presented Hermione with a blinding diamond ring laid on a bed of black velvet. “It’s about time, don’t you think?” Plucking the ring from its home, Cormac held it loftily between two fingers, presenting it proudly. “Will you marry me, Hermione?”

Time stopped.

A war waged in her chest. On one hand was the life she’d planned for herself and spent years meticulously strategizing, and on the other was… Sirius.

Could a few days really destroy what took years to build and nurture? Was she so unwilling to forgive him for one single act of transgression, especially where her only proof was overhearing a conversation? And could he forgive her, for her weakness, for her doubts, for her heart leading her astray?

Hermione gnawed on her lip, aware that every second ticking by sowed seeds of doubt in the man kneeling before her. Hadn’t she spent time developing lists and plans for this moment and those that would surely follow? And if she said yes, could their plans withstand the night she’d shared with Sirius?

At the thought, something prickled along the back of her neck. Hermione’s eyes flicked around the pitch, along the many faces of strangers nearby, and like a moth to a flame, sought out Sirius in the crowd.

She had no way to know he was there, but she  _ felt _ him watching; could tell his gray eyes were on her from somewhere in the crowd. Just before turning her sights back to Cormac, she caught sight of a leather jacketed body retreating through the thinning crowd in the stands.

He’d been there.

He’d left.

Perhaps it had only been a chance to sow the wild oats of her youth. And, if the newscast of Cormac and that slight brunette was anything to go by, Cormac had done the same. Maybe they could leave Dublin and never have to revisit what they’d done.

Maybe she could salvage her life plan after all.

Placing her hand gently on Cormac’s cheek, Hermione nodded. “Yes,” she whispered, lips rising as he lifted himself from the ground and crushed her in a massive hug. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

“Brilliant,” Cormac said, planting a kiss just shy of her ear. “Smile for the cameras, love. Time to get used to the spotlight.”

The ring slipped onto her finger and the crowd around them went wild. Flashes, cheers, and wolf whistles filled the pitch. And while part of Hermione’s heart was racing at the idea that her dreams were coming true, another part of it was chasing Sirius out of the stands and back to Dingle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh, I can't believe we're almost at the end of this journey - only 2 more chapters to go! Thank you all so much for continuing along with me and for all the support along the way! I do promise a HEA - it's a romcom, after all. :) Much love to the alphabet team (mcal, LadyKenz347, and In_Dreams) for their willingness to whip me into shape and make me better. <3


	9. The Big News

Hermione clutched a heavy white sheet around her chest as she stared blankly at the ceiling of Cormac's bedroom. She was far from sated, feeling an ache deep in her core as she listened to Cormac’s exaggerated breathing beside her. Sex with him had always been good...  _ before _ . Now, the throb between her legs receded, entirely unsatisfied.

She swallowed hard, choking on thoughts of an entirely different sexual experience that had left her sweaty with labored breathing and the aftershocks of pleasure coursing through her body. Silence suffocated her. A hollow pit settled in her stomach as she considered what she should do next. There was so much to do, so little time. She was afraid if she moved too quickly, he’d know something was wrong, and so Hermione laid still trying to pretend everything was perfectly fine.

They’d been back in England for a week. She knew there was a tough conversation coming, but Hermione had put it off as long as she could stand to. The anticipation created an anxious buzz in her mind. But if they were going to get married, it was only fair to both of them to air the dirty laundry.

Cormac’s lips were suddenly on her cheek, his breath tickling her ear. “Today’s the day. You ready to move in?”

Hesitating, Hermione tightened her grip on the sheets and sat up. “I meet the movers in two hours and give the keys to my flat to Mr. Eeylops once we’re done.”

“Ace.” He stood from the bed in all his naked glory—truly, he was something to look at with all his sharp edges—and strutted around the room piecing his outfit together with the clothes he’d lost on the floor the night before. “Listen, I’ve got to get to practice, but maybe we can have dinner together tonight? I’ll grab a curry.”

Hermione swallowed over a thick knot and nodded. “Right. Sounds good.”

The palm of his hand met her cheek softly and he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Next time I see you, you’ll be my flatmate.”

“Can’t wait,” she said, forcing her lips into a small smile.

* * *

Walking through Diagon helped to lift her spirits. Hermione waved to Mister and Missus Eeylops as they potted their plants and swept along their cobbled walkway. She was going to miss them—miss all of this.

Taking her time, Hermione strolled along the bustling street. The scent of candied pecans—one that had become her favorite over the years—chased after her. Sunlight glinted off the metal signs over each shop as the chiming doors welcomed patrons into their cozy nooks.

City life wouldn’t have this same magic. Owls racing overhead. Nifflers peering through windows. Patrons excitedly shouting at their friends and families as they hurried towards their next purchase.

Contentment battled with lament in her aching chest. Saying goodbye to all the little joys of magic somehow felt bigger now than she ever realized.

When Hermione reached her stoop, she sighed and took an extra moment to watch the alley. Many of the things she loved about magic, she had discovered on this very high street. Sure, Hogwarts had been her first home in the Wizarding World, but Diagon… it was as much a part of her soul as magic itself.

She grasped the doorknob and begrudgingly walked into her flat beside Flourish & Blotts, a sour-tasting sorrow settling on her tongue.

As she waited for the movers to arrive, Hermione sat on a chair in the middle of her empty flat and stared around at the bare walls with a pang of sadness moistening her eyes. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to move in with Cormac, but leaving behind this special little place that had come to be home was harder than she imagined. And, most of her furniture would be donated to a program for those still suffering the effects of the war. She was leaving behind so much more than the perfect flat, and tried to tell herself the tears were a natural part of an ending.

So much had changed so quickly.

Her magical core was all but replenished, but something still felt  _ off _ . Missing. As if she’d left a piece of herself back in Ireland. The healers at St. Mungo’s were able to pinpoint her loss of magic back to the old DA coin Harry had charmed as a Portkey—something about the inlaid magic of the Protean Charm—and it was a matter of several potions to help kickstart her magic again.

Those potions hadn’t come close to how she had felt as her magic kindled with Sirius’, though. The intense power of their combined energies had triggered something so primal, there was no synthetic replication that could possibly duplicate it.

Memories flashed through her mind; inky magical tattoos dancing along taut skin, a cheeky, crooked smile, fingers wrapped haphazardly in her curls, her body contorting around his, the stream of curses through his molars as she sheathed herself on him.

Sighing, Hermione shook her head as if to clear it. She had to put Sirius and Ireland behind her in order to move forward with Cormac. To move forward into the future she’d meticulously planned for so long.

But then, why did it feel… insufficient?

A knock on her door yanked her from the downward spiral of her thoughts. She took a deep breath and allowed them in to box up the entire life she’d built, one piece at a time.

* * *

Living with Cormac wasn’t much different than staying at his place on the weekends. He wasn’t around very often and they ate a lot of takeaway. The sex was frequent, but also lacking, and it was driving her bloody mad. It had never been a problem before, but she realized more often than not that Cormac’s climax was the end of the matter and she was left wanting.

She thought, perhaps, tonight after the victory celebration for the Quidditch World Cup would be different. They’d be properly soused and she could always convince him to go down on her after he’d had a few drinks.

So, she put on her favorite fuck-me dress and the matching heels, and held onto his arm through the night with a brilliant, albeit forced, smile on her face. Hermione didn’t mind being his trophy. After all, that’s what he would be when she ran for Minister of Magic. As far as Hermione was concerned, their relationship was symbiotic.

As he paraded her around the room towards the coach and owner of the team, Hermione straightened her shoulder and pressed herself close to Cormac.

“Hermione!” the coach, Nettle, greeted her boisterously, a massive smile hidden beneath his fat, walrus mustache. He kissed both her cheeks and offered her a flute of champagne from a passing tray. “You must be well chuffed with McLaggen’s big news.”

“Big news?” Hermione glanced upwards at Cormac, who shifted and bit his lip. Nervous was not a feeling she typically saw plainly on his face; the faint blush across his nose deepened as their eyes met. Suspicion prickled at the nape of her neck. “What’s the big news?”

“Ah…” Cormac raked a hand through his floppy blond hair and frowned. “I was hoping we’d talk about this another time—I swear I wasn’t keeping it from you, just wanted a chance to present it properly.”

A warning bell resounded in her mind; it caused her palms to moisten, her heart to drop into her stomach.

“Surely this is a wonderful change of pace for you lot.” Coach Nettle clapped Cormac on the back with a jovial chortle. “You’ll be newly married and in a whole new country!”

Hermione’s back straightened and her face drained of color, eyes darting back to Cormac’s grimacing face. As if someone slammed their fists into her gut, all the air from her lungs rushed through her lips. “ _ A whole new country _ ?”

“Hermione, love,” Cormac muttered, a desperate hush attempting to calm her racing heart. “I—let’s go have a chat, yeah?”

Dragging her away, he found a quiet, dark corner in the midst of all the commotion of the celebration and backed her against a wall. Rage bubbled inside of her, warring with the despair that was all the things she’d dreamed of slipping out of her grasp. Moisture pricked her eyes.

“Hermione.” Concern danced over his face like a shadow. His comfort chafed at the skin where his thumb caressed her jaw. “Look, it happened very fast. Nettle organized a meeting with the head of the European League and they offered me a spot on their team.”

With a hand on his broad chest, she curled her fingers into the dense fabric of his expensive black dress robes and bared her teeth. “And you told them that you had to discuss it with your fiancée first?”

She knew he hadn’t. Could feel it vibrating through her with every grind of her molars.

“I…” He blinked and crowded her space further. “I  _ couldn’t _ turn it down. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity and if I would have walked away without saying yes, they would have withdrawn the offer. I had to—”

Shoving her finger into his chest, poking against his hard pectorals, Hermione growled. “That’s bullshit and you know it!” Cormac grabbed her hand, holding it tightly to his chest. “Where will you be located?”

“ _ We _ ,” he emphasized softly, “will be located in Russia, where the training camp—”

“Russia!” Ripping her hand from his, she shoved Cormac out of her space and pinned him with a dangerous point of her finger and narrowed eyes. “I can’t bloody live in  _ Russia _ , Cormac! In what universe did you think it would be okay to—”

“You can commute!” he hissed back at her, and then checked his tone under her icy glare. “There are Portkeys and Floo networks. Apparation points. You’re upset for no reason, lo—”

She was going to fucking  _ murder _ him.

All the anger she felt collected as tears in her eyes as she huffed out a sharp breath and pushed a steadying hand to her chest. “I can’t become Minister of Magic if I’m living in Russia, you muppet!” Hermione pressed back against the wall and bent at the waist, trying to calm her pounding heart. “Do you have  _ any _ idea of the political strain between Russia and the UK? I…” Years of hard work dissolved in front of her very eyes, forcing a breathless whine from her lips. “My career would  _ die _ .”

“That’s utterly dramatic.” His eyes rolled to the ceiling as he reached out and placed a large hand on her shoulder. Opening her mouth to protest, all the very worst of her vocabulary jumped to the tip of her tongue, ready to be launched like missiles. Cormac’s eyebrows inched higher on his forehead as he cut off her attack. “It’ll be years before you’re ready to make your run for Minister, won’t it?”

Words caught in her throat. The hairs at the nape of her neck stood, sensing the threat, but her logical brain hesitated. Cormac seemed to sense it, and swooped in with his ridiculously soothing voice and soft touches and enraging, crooked grin.

“So we go to Russia for a couple of years. You commute to the office, build your reputation and portfolio.” His sweet breath fanned her face. “Professional Quidditch players retire early. By the time I retire, it’ll be your time to shine. And you’ll shine so fucking bright, Hermione.”

His lips captured hers and there was nothing more to be said.

He took her silence as acceptance.

And she shoved away the wary part of her mind that accused her of ruining her lifelong plans for the sake of love.

* * *

The king sized bed had never felt so foreign. They lay on opposite sides, Cormac deep asleep and Hermione unable to calm her mind long enough to find even the lightest sleep. Their sex had been underwhelming in a whole new way; she itched with the discomfort of it, of his whispered words of praise in her ear.

It was barely dawn when she threw herself from the bed and made a strong cup of tea to nurse at their kitchenette. Moving to Russia didn’t have to be the end of her career, but it did change the very foundation she’d layered together over the years. Russia with Cormac wasn’t insurmountable. But, Hermione knew of something that might be.

And it was only proper that she be honest with Cormac, especially after the verbal lashing she’d given him at his victory celebration.

When he sauntered into the kitchen in his low slung pajamas, brick-like chest on display for her enjoyment, Hermione gulped the rest of her tea. She toyed with the handle of her mug and chewed at the corner of her lip.

Cormac sat with his steaming cuppa, kicking an ankle over his knee with a massive, sleepy grin in her direction. “You’re up early. I didn’t realize you were such a morning person.”

She wasn’t, not really. It was easy to be so vividly awake when she hadn’t slept a wink. Still, she forced a tight smile and fidgeted with the ceramic mug between her hands. “We need to talk.”

Scrubbing his stubbled cheek with his hand, Cormac groaned. “Listen, love. I know I should have told you about Russia, but carrying on about it is pointless, I can’t—”

She dropped her eyes to the dregs of tea in her cup and took a deep breath.

“I slept with someone else.”

Hesitantly, Hermione brought her eyes to his as she tried desperately to force the deep pools of heat off her face. Cormac simply stared, so unemotive, and sipped from his tea, watching her silently.

She placed her hands flat on the table, using its cool surface to ground herself. “When I was in Dublin… I saw the Muggle news.”

As if that explained everything, she let her words fade away. Her eyebrows inched up, willing him to understand that she  _ knew _ he’d been unfaithful, too. That they were even. She  _ knew _ and they would be okay.

Still, Cormac remained silent, eyes flicking around her face.

“It seemed like you were… close to that Muggle girl,” she hedged, gnawing on her lip as she waited for him to admit his indiscretions.

Carefully, Cormac set his mug onto the table. His chest rose and fell slowly, measured, as he ran a hand through his hair and then scratched his chin. “Ah, er—I wasn’t aware you saw that.”

She ducked her chin, a quick affirmation. “And then I saw her in Dublin while I was shopping. She was telling her friend all about shagging footballers.”

The way he considered her, eyes widening minutely, lower lip pouting, caused a sharp clench in her gut. Cormac licked his lower lip and leaned over the table. “Yvonne Chambers, daughter of President Chambers of the European Confederation of Wizarding Relations. Not Muggle—Muggle _ born _ .”

“What?” Hermione blinked, an acidic tang rising in her throat. “But—she referred to you as footballers, and she said—”

Cormac smirked, though it wasn’t his typical, saucy smirk. No, this was sadder. “So did I, love. We can’t very well talk about Quidditch so brazenly with so many restrictions and strategies in place to keep Muggles unaware of our match.” He paused and lowered his voice. “I didn’t sleep with her. Might have been another bloke on the team; they’re mostly single.”

Heaviness sat in Hermione’s chest as tears collected in her eyes, clinging to her lashes. She opened her mouth to speak, to apologize, to  _ fix it _ somehow, but nothing came out. Silence hung between the beats of her ragged breaths.

What had she done?

Centuries ticked by, measured by the painful throbbing of her heart.

Finally, Cormac broke the silence, laying his hand over hers. He cocked his head to the side, curiosity glimmering in his eyes. “Hermione, do you really believe I could do something so horrible to you?”

She swallowed thickly, dipping her eyes to the small birthmark that kissed his collarbone. The words caught in her throat, but she forced them through. “No. Yes. I don’t know. I didn’t believe it until I saw you with your arm around her and thought it made much more sense for you to want her than for you to want me.”

Cormac shook his head, floppy hair dancing atop his head. “Silly witch,” he chuckled, the words laced together with the sort of lament she felt deep in her core. “If I’d been paying more attention, I would have noticed you were slipping away—”

“I wasn’t,” she interrupted him hastily, trying like hell to keep her tears at bay. “I wasn’t slipping away. It just…”

“Hasn’t been right for some time, has it?” That damnable smirk deepened his dimples. “It’s alright, love. We both wanted this to work, had quite the plan to power through Europe as the It Couple, didn’t we?”

“Yeah,” she croaked, unable to articulate more.

Swiping his mug, Cormac leaned back against his chair. She prepared herself for yelling, for groveling, for anything other than what came out of his mouth next.

“So, tell me more about the man that’s worth ending all this for?”

Hermione sucked her lips between her teeth, and then told Cormac the entire story of her trek across Ireland.

* * *

“I don’t understand.” Harry sat a piping hot cup of tea in front of her and plopped down in the chair next to her. “You wanted to propose to Cormac, he proposed to you instead, and now the wedding’s off?”

Smiling sheepishly as she blew on her tea, Hermione nodded. “That about sums it up, yeah. I really screwed it up, Harry, but honestly it’s for the best. We parted friends, which was more than I deserved from him.”

Harry forced his round wire frame glasses onto the bridge of his nose and blinked in that entirely confused, Harry Potter way. “What the hell happened in Dublin, Hermione?”

So she told him everything. About the glitchy Portkey, about her loss of magic, about the inn that harbored her when she was sodden and cold. She told him about the tetchy innkeeper who offered to take her into Dublin, about the motorbike, and about the bed and breakfast. Harry’s eyes widened the longer she rambled. When her story ended, she folded her hands in her lap and stared at a space just over his shoulder.

“Sirius Black is an innkeeper in Dingle,” he stated flatly, removing his glasses and tossing them onto the table between them. Rubbing his eyes, Harry laughed, startling Hermione. “And he never went to Azkaban, or  _ died _ . Just—how did you put it?—dropped through the veil and popped out the other side in nineteen ninety six?”

To hear it replayed back in Harry’s hesitant tone sounded ridiculous. Still, Hermione confirmed his accurate recount of her tale, lips twitching as the dining hall at Grimmauld Place filled with his disbelieving chortle.

Harry swiped his mug from the table and gulped its contents. She could always count on her best friend to bring a certain levity to a heavy situation; what used to drive her mental in school had become a lifeline to her now.

He eyed her for a moment and clasped his hands behind his head. “I assume you have a theory?”

Excitement bubbled in her stomach, dissolving the tension that had lived there for what felt like weeks. “I do!” She straightened herself and adjusted her jumper, squaring her shoulders and leaning forward. “I went—”

“To the library,” Harry supplemented, his little laugh more playful than teasing.

“Exactly. And, after reading through  _ Quintessence: A Quest _ —you know, standard sixth year NEWT text—”

“No one except you knows that,” he deadpanned.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Anyway, I believe Professor Dumbledore had a failsafe for the Fidelius Charm. Something that would ensure Sirius’ safety should he be caught by the Death Eaters. The charm would hold even when they switched Secret Keepers, and since Sirius was never captured…”

“The charm stuck until he fell through the veil,” Harry whispered, plucking his lips with his fingers. Suddenly, he snapped his fingers victoriously. “That’s brilliant! Did you bring the book home? I think we can use that for our informants, as an added incentive!”

“It would certainly open more lines of communication if you could ensure their safety,” Hermione agreed, then muttered, “I’ll have to do more research on the Fidelius Charm and the veil. We can present it to Minister Shacklebolt once we know more.”

They sat in their thoughts for several minutes until Harry finally spoke again, hope wrapping itself in his whisper. “I hope he comes to visit.”

“Me too, Harry.” Merlin, what she wouldn’t give to see his face again. Shoving down the desperate urge to see Sirius, Hermione turned her attention to more important things. Her lips tugged up. “I have a favor to ask.”

“Yes, you can stay here,” he said, as if he’d been waiting for her to bring up her living situation. “You have your pick of bedrooms. Kreacher puts on tea at half six.”

Something settled inside of her, something that felt awfully similar to happiness.

* * *

Hermione hesitated at the topmost landing of Grimmauld Place, seeing the golden name plate etched with  _ Sirius _ . She’d been avoiding this particular room for a fortnight after moving in. But now, seeing his name glaring back at her, all that unfinished business crashed into her with the weight of the Hogwarts Express.

Hermione pushed open the door and gingerly stepped inside, as if she’d set off alarms for invading his personal space. Perhaps if she was lucky, he’d Apparate back.

And then she’d know.

When Sirius didn’t suddenly appear behind her, she moved further into his old space. The room was larger than the one she’d chosen to stay in. A massive, wooden bed sat against one wall, its messy maroon sheets tangled over a dusty mattress. The entire room would need to be sprayed for Doxies, she thought as she made her way further into the dark room.

Photos from Muggle magazines covered the old, yellowing wallpaper. Scantily clad girls lying in what looked like uncomfortable positions on a beach, motorcycles, and Muggle bands, all watched over her as she surveyed every inch of space. A ragged Gryffindor banner hung loosely in one corner, bringing a hint of a smile to her face.

Perched on the bedside table was a photo of four carefree boys walking down the familiar path to the Black Lake. Unlike every other photo in the room, this one moved. It showcased true friendship, laughter, and brotherly love as the boys embraced one another in various stages of amusement.

Her fingers traced the photo, pulling from it a layer of dust that clung to her fingertips. She rubbed the dust off and sat upon the bed with a heavy sigh. Every five seconds, Sirius’ eyes would meet hers and his lips would part in a generous, genuine grin.

She watched the photo loop for what seemed like hours before tearing her eyes away. On the floor by her feet laid a maroon shirt with  _ QUEEN _ scrawled across it in golden letters. Sticking out from beneath it was another photo. Snatching it from the floor, butterflies skated through her stomach.

Sirius stood in a leather jacket, the one she’d worn at Malin Beg. His hands gripped the leather handles of his flying motorbike, eyes sparkling mischievously at whomever was taking the photo. His hand lifted, and he waved his middle finger at the camera, tossing a playful wink at her.

Warmth bloomed in Hermione’s chest. Familiar fluttering stirred in her chest. Her breath caught, lungs on fire from the strain. His crooked smile knocked her sideways, and she flung herself from the bed.

Memories crashed forward, tangling and toppling together. Suddenly, it made sense why nothing else had ever felt quite right with anyone else. Her magic flared and called for the crotchety, snarky innkeeper and, as sure as she was that her life’s plan was in absolute chaos, Hermione was certain beyond a reasonable doubt that she had truly, impossibly, fallen in love with Sirius Black.

She had to find him.

Had to get to him.

Had to tell him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My alphabet team rocks and somehow worked their magic to get this chapter back to me in record time. Thanks as always to mcal, LadyKenz347, and In_Dreams for their unfailing support in making me better.
> 
> Also, fun fact: In the original plan for this chapter, a Cormac sex scene was supposed to include Cormac climaxing and shouting “Cormac is the king!” I’m sad that I cut it, but had to tell you all that it had been there 🤣


	10. You Got Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beautiful artwork done by LadyKenz347 (tumblr) / LadyScribbles (Facebook).

Nervous energy propelled Hermione forward. She was single-minded, thoughts firmly set on a little inn nestled in the countryside of Dingle, Ireland and the cheeky sod who ran it. A wide smile covered her whole face, wrinkling her eyes and dimpling her cheeks.

“Where’s the fire?”

Harry chased after Hermione as she rushed from room to room, elation falling from her lips in exhilarated laughs.

“This is truly frightening, Hermione.”

She ignored him as she stuffed her bag with everything her hands could grab.

“What’s happening?” Harry finally caught her, holding Hermione in place with a firm grip on her shoulders. “You’re freaking me out.”

“I don’t have time to explain,” she answered in a rush, trying to shrug him off. “I have to get to Dingle.”

“Dingle?” Harry pulled a face. “What’s—oh,  _ oh _ . Hermione, is this really a good—”

“I’m  _ going _ , Harry.” She managed to escape his hold, withdrawing her wand in the single beat it took for her to step out of his space. “I can Apparate this time. I know where I’m going, I know where he is. I have to see him.”

Pursing his lips, Harry stared over his glasses. The longer the silence went on, the more Hermione felt the urge to crack out of Grimmauld, but then he reached forward and tugged on one of her curls.

“Let’s fix your hair first,” he said, smirking. “You know I appreciate the chaos that’s your hair, but honestly it looks like it’s about to attempt a takeover of Tokyo.”

The only person in the entire world who could get away with hair jokes was also one of the only people in the world who was shockingly good with the wand work required to relax the frantic curls that framed her face. He waved his wand once and nodded to himself with a small smile.

“Alright, you look less mad now.” They shared a laugh, and as the excitement began to curdle into nerves, Harry put his hand lightly on her shoulder. “You’re brilliant, Hermione. I’m sure he knows that.”

“Right.” 

“Tell that git to visit, would you?”

“See you, Harry.”

Raising her wand, Hermione clenched her teeth and stomped down the roiling anxiety that chased through her body. She visualized the inn in the countryside, its rustic exterior belying the warmth inside, and the ocean crashing in the distance. The rolling green hills were clearer now than the first night she’d trudged up the muddy road towards the billowing chimney. 

With a small step forward, Hermione twisted her body and Disapparated with a resounding crack.

* * *

Dingle looked vastly different without slanting rain muddying up the roads. Sunshine poured from a cloudless sky as Hermione popped into existence on a winding path leading to a small, unassuming inn. Her legs shook as they carried her up its slight incline. Pocketing her wand, Hermione gripped hard to the luggage she’d brought with her.

A butterfly zoomed by, the beats of its wings noisy in the otherwise quiet countryside.

When she reached the door of the inn, her heart jumped to her throat. This might have been the wrong decision; if he’d wanted to see her after everything that happened, wouldn’t he have come to England? Gone to visit Harry at Grimmauld? Her slick hand slipped against the doorknob as she curled her fingers around it.

All of her doubts pounded through her thoughts.

Perhaps this was the wrong thing to do.

But, she’d spent so long trying to do only the right things, and had managed to get it all wrong. What was one more red mark on the trajectory of her suddenly chaotic life?

Bolstering her nerves with a greedy pull of air, Hermione squared her shoulders and pushed her way into the inn.

It was busier than she’d seen it on her last visit. Patrons dotted nearly every table in the place. They drank, laughed, and created a cacophony of noise that set her worries on edge. Her eyes flickered around the whole place, but didn’t see that familiar head of shaggy hair anywhere.

Aware that several pairs of eyes followed her movements, Hermione loped towards the bar and took a seat on the only empty stool sandwiched between two properly soused blokes.

“Aye, Pat, the lad from Kilkenney ne’er drank Guinness.”

“No, no, no. You’re all wrong. It was the lad from—”

Hermione smiled as they argued good naturedly back and forth. Her eyes landed on a crisp newspaper next to the till. A familiar head of floppy blond hair sat on the front page. Cormac’s smiling face stared back at her under the headline  _ New Bachelor Cormac McLaggen Set to Play International _ . 

Contentment swept through her, momentarily dulling the flare of anxiety layering itself through her body. She imagined Sirius had placed a charm to keep the newspaper from moving, and that if he hadn’t, Cormac would be winking at her from its cover.

A man with a gentle presence approached her from the other side of the bar. He held a pad of paper and pen. “What’ll it be, miss?”

Sighing, Hermione ordered a simple sandwich and tea. She catalogued all the things that could have possibly gone wrong since she left; he sold his inn, he was somehow found by the Ministry at the Quidditch World Cup, he took off somewhere else so that he’d never be found again. When her sandwich was placed in front of her, she picked at it, not at all interested in eating it.

She’d finally talked herself into asking the man behind the bar about Sirius when she lifted her gaze to the kitchen door. Her jaw hung open as Sirius walked through it, a smile slowly fading away from his handsome face.

“What’re you doing here?” he asked, pushing a hand through his hair. There was a tick in his jaw, and she swore she saw him suck in a deep breath as he approached her.

Hermione held his gaze, forcing her voice into a calmness she didn’t feel as her stomach rolled and rioted. “Came to see you.”

A smirk lifted one of his cheeks. He crossed his arms over his chest. Merlin, those arms, the way they held her, how solid they felt beneath her fingertips. Sirius doused her thoughts in icy water. “Your fella know you’re here?”

She chewed her lip for a moment. “Cormac’s in Russia, which isn’t as appealing as you’d think in the wintertime. We decided to go our separate ways,” she said, testing the waters with an upward tick of her lips. “Turns out, he’s a far better person than I ever gave him credit for.”

Sirius had nothing to say, which had to be a first. His fingers dug into his biceps as Hermione stood from the bar and planted her hands on its cool, lacquered surface.

“I want you to come home.” He gave her no indication what he was thinking, just stared as she tried to calm her racing heart. “You don’t know what you’re turning your back on, Sirius.”

That seemed to knock him out of his stoic assessment of her. Sirius shook his head, gritting his teeth and speaking through his molars. “I wouldn’t do anyone any favors. Felon and all that.”

"Come off it. You know you've been cleared of all—"

"Besides,” he pressed on as if he hadn’t heard her, “what's in London except for more gray skies and people who wouldn’t want me?"

"Harry wants you.” Hermione dropped her voice to a whisper. “ _ I _ want you.”

"It's not a good idea." He took a step to turn away, and she panicked.

Swatting her hand on the bartop hard enough to sting, Hermione lost all pretense of softness. “Sirius Black, I want to marry you!”

The entire inn went deafeningly silent. Silverware clattered on plates. A collective breath was drawn.

Hermione’s heart thundered between her ears.

And then it crashed to her feet as Sirius turned around and walked back through the kitchen door without another word.

There was no stopping the tears that dripped in a relentless torrent from her eyes. Gripping onto her luggage like a lifeline, Hermione stole through the inn, every single gaze pinned to her and exposing every tear like raw nerves coated in salt. She pushed through the door, gulping breaths of fresh air as soon as the breeze hit her.

She blazed a path to the nearby cliffs, trying to squash the tsunami of rejection swirling around her. Apparating back to Grimmauld Place would be impossible in her current state. All she could see were his empty eyes, the way his knuckles turned white around his biceps, how his shoulders tightened beneath the  _ Led Zeppelin _ shirt he’d worn.

With a dozen or so steadying breaths, she faced the sea and closed her eyes. Destination. Determination. Deliberation. She took a step forward, hoping like Hell that she could make it back to England without splinching herself.

Before she could turn, a hand closed over her shoulder. She yelped, but the noise died in her throat as she came face to face with a tall, shaggy, grinning Sirius Black.

“Sirius!” she exhaled, fingers to her lips.

“What’re you doing out here?” he asked, as if he thought she was dense.

Hermione blinked. “You said no.”

“I didn’t say no.” That ridiculous smile on his face grew epically, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Didn’t say anything.”

“You walked away!”

He shrugged. “Had to grab something.” Holding up a small, shimmering vial to her eyes, Sirius tapped his temple. “I remember everything now.”

A breath left her, heavy and hopeful. “Oh.”

Crowding her space, Sirius stepped closer and pocketed the memories. “You’ve been part of my life for a long time, haven’t you?”

Speechless, Hermione nodded. Her gaze followed Sirius as he lowered himself to the ground, kneeling. He grabbed her hand, holding it gently between his. “Would you like to be part of it longer then?”

She began to cry for a whole new reason. Tears fell down her cheeks as Sirius slipped a simple, silver band on her finger. “I don’t have anything, Sirius. Barely a career. Don’t even have a flat to my name anymore. I’ve got nothing.”

Standing, he tossed her a sly wink and pulled her close. “You got me.”

For what felt like the first time in weeks, Hermione’s face lit up in a genuine, full smile. It lasted only a second, and then Sirius buried his hands into her curls and tilted her head. He crushed their lips together as a breeze picked up around them. Melting against him, Hermione wound her arms around his neck.

She had no plans for the future, no assurance that this would work out in the end, but something told Hermione that this was the beginning of her happily ever after.

_ I give up, I give in, I let go  
Let's begin  
Cause no matter what I do  
My heart is filled with you  
You got me, You got me  
**You Got Me, Colbie Caillat**_ **  
**

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, we come to the end! I want to take a moment to thank everyone who read, left kudos, commented, and rec'd this little fic. I'm so glad to have shared this, and cannot thank you all enough for sharing your time with me for the past five-ish months with me and these two knuckleheads. :) One last bit of love to mcal, LadyKenz347, and In_Dreams, who have been utterly amazeballs as the alphabet team and as friends through this whole story.
> 
> Until next time, friends!  
> <3 Jessi


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